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Translated by ELIZABETH A. SHARP. 

" The one important thing for the English reader is to know that the 
translation here given is, in the first place, faithful ; and, in the second, 
flowing and readable. These qualities it possesses to a very exceptional 
degree. " The Glasgow Herald. 

"These .translations, excellent in themselves, are doubly valuable from 
the encouragement they offer to the increased study of Heine by English 
readers." Morning Leader. 

" Heine's most characteristic qualities . . . come out with all the force 
of the original text in Mrs. Sharp's translation. Indeed, it is difficult to 
believe that her supple, vigorous English, everywhere fresh and vivid, is 
not the actual form in which the ideas first took shape." Yorkshire 

"Mrs. Sharp's translation strikes me as quite excellent." Black and 

" It is needless to commend to the reader a book which contains some of 
Heine's brightest prose : we have only to mention that the translation has 
been accurately and intelligently done, and that it has as preface the essay 
on the author by The"ophile Gautier." St. James' Budget. 

"As a translator of Heine, Mrs. Sharp's work is not, on the whole, 
inferior so far as we are aware to that of any previous labourer in the 
same field." The Academy. 

" The public is under no small debt of gratitude to Mrs. Sharp. She has 
absorbed Heine and given him back to English readers without, as is the 
case with so many translators, imposing upon them anything of her own 
subjectivity." The Library Review. 

"The volume of translations from Heine, under the head of Travel 
Sketches, etc., is a collection of well chosen and well translated essays 
on a variety of topics. Many of the essays especially those on 'The 
French Stage ' are in Heine's brightest vein ; sympathetic and playful, 
even when most mordant in their satire. The critical essay oil George 
Sand, (I propos of the production of her play of Lelia at the Theatre 
Francais in 1840, is in a tone of delicate and discriminating eulogy. The 
' Prefatory Study of Heine,' by Theophile Gautier, is in itself enough to 
win favour for the little volume from all who can appreciate fine literary 
criticism." The Westinuwler Revieio. 









BERLIOZ, LISZT, CHOPIN, 1837 . . .17 

THE SALON, 1831 . 30 

THE SALON, 1833 ... . .82 

LETTERS FROM BERLIN, 1822 . . . .98 


JUNE DAYS, 1832 ... 187 



86108 f 


OF the several papers collected in this volume, the 
earliest dates back to 1822, and is the first important 
prose essay published by Heinrich Heine : the most 
recent bears the date 1846, and so was written 
by him ten years before his death. Between these 
dates is comprised the whole of Heine's active career; 
for although, even before 1846, he had endured 
severe bodily suffering, it was not till subsequently 
that he became the confirmed invalid " nailed to his 
mattress grave." 

The Selections are drawn from his prose writings 
exclusively. They represent Heine in very distinc- 
tive mental phases, and thus afford diverse as well as 
always interesting glimpses of his complex person- 

I have divided the book into two sections, each 
arranged chronologically. These comprise selections 
from Heine's brilliant Letters on Art and Music, and 
from that part of his correspondence which is occupied 
with political topics and events in the France of his 
day. Only two of the papers are concerned with 


Germany: "The Old Regime" (" Kahldorf"), which 
gives an idea of the curious social conditions in 
Germany prior to the Revolution of 1848, and " Berlin 
Sketches." It is of interest to note the difference of 
style in the early and the later writings. The " Berlin 
Sketches " were written when the author was twenty- 
two years of age. They were addressed to Dr. Schulz, 
the editor of the Rhein and Westphalian Journal > who 
printed them in the literary portion of his newspaper. 
They give a vivid picture of Berlin in the early part 
of the nineteenth century. Though but " a city of 
Prussia," it was even then the centre of intellectual life 
in Germany. True, Goethe held his court elsewhere, 
for he detested Berlin. With many eminent men of 
letters, scientists, and philosophers, Heine associated. 
In the salon of Varnhagen von Ense he met and 
talked with Hegel, Franz Bopp, Chamisso, Fouque'; 
occasionally, too, he encountered noted foreigners, 
among others a son of Sir Walter Scott, whom he 
first saw in Highland costume at a masked ball. 
Heine's descriptions give a keen impression of the 
social life of a capital, with its interests, its squabbles, 
its prejudices. He is brilliant, though his wit is not 
always spontaneous ; he is sarcastic, but his irony is 
not tipped with flame, as in his later writings. 

In 1831 Heine crossed the Rhine and entered the 
country of his adoption. He reached Paris in May. 
There he found the Salon opened in the Louvre ; and 
straightway he began the series of letters on the 
Art, Music, and Drama of the day, which were pub- 
lished in divers German newspapers in Stuttgart, 


Augsburg, and elsewhere. " Works of genius are 
immutable, and immortal. Criticism expresses the 
current views of the time being, and appeals only to 
that time; and unless it is itself in some measure a 
work of art, it dies with its age." This remark of 
Heine's cannot be applied without qualification to his 
own critical writings on aesthetics. His appreciations 
of contemporary art and music are written by a man 
of genius, but, so to speak, too often as a man of 
genius in undress uniform. In a word, the journalist 
too often obscures the man of letters. Again, 
particularly as a critic of art and of music, Heine 
habitually wrote from the literary standpoint, rather 
than from that of the musician or painter. On the 
other hand, these letters have the value of individual 
and unconventional conviction. Their critical acumen 
is often acute ; and ever and again he is, as an 
interpreter, singularly illuminative, while, as might be 
expected, he is continually suggestive. 

The daily notes sent to Augsburg from Paris 
during the June days of 1832 were jotted down in 
the midst of the short-lived Revolution, as were 
the " Letters from Normandy," which describe in like 
manner events in the early part of the reign of 
Louis Philippe. 

Early in January 1846 Heine wrote of himself: 
"If the paralysis, which like an iron band constricts 
my chest, should decrease, my old energy will again 
bestir itself. . . . Yes, I am sick to death; but 
my soul has not suffered mortal hurt. It is a 
drooping and an athirst, but not yet withered flower, 


and still has its roots firmly planted in the ground 
of Truth and Love." He sought relief at Bareges; 
but the visit to those baths was fraught with ennui 
and discomfort, and, in truth, was productive of little 
gain to the sufferer. In the following September he 
wrote the first of his three wills, that which ends with 
the pathetic farewells to his native land, and to the 
country of his adoption. " Farewell, thou German 
fatherland, land of mysteries and of sorrows ! Be 
prosperous and happy. Farewell, ye kindly French 
people, whom I have loved so much ! I thank you 
for your cordial hospitality." 

The cosmopolitan Heine, whose artistic sympathies, 
however, were so essentially French, preserved through 
all vicissitudes an undying love for his fatherland. In 
his last will, dated November 1851, he affirms that the 
" sustained aim of his later life was an effort towards 
a sympathetic reconciliation between France and 
Germany, a persistent attempt to frustrate the arti- 
fices of the enemies of Democracy, who, for their own 
profit, exploited international prejudices and animosi- 
ties." Heine lived in Paris twenty-five years, and 
during the last years of his life received a small 
pension from the French Government. His accept- 
ance of this brought very severe censure upon him 
from his enemies, who concluded that he was a 
naturalised Frenchman. In 1848 he published in the 
Augsburg Gazette an explanation of his action: 

" No, the subsidies that I received from Guizot were no 
tribute. The pension was merely an assistance, it was 


I call the thing by its name a dole of the great charity 
accorded by the French people to aliens or exiles, who, 
through their zeal for the cause of the Revolution, had 
become more or less gloriously compromised in their own 
country, and had sought refuge by the side of the hospit- 
able French hearth. I sought this monetary assistance 
shortly after the appearance (in Germany) of the regret- 
table decrees of the Confederation, whose aim was to ruin 
me financially, as the Coryphaeus of the so-called Young 
Germany, by antedating an interdict not only on my 
existing writings, but also on all those which might later 
be produced by my pen with intent to despoil me, 
without right and without trial, of my fortune and of my 

In 1843 Heine wrote a lengthy article on his 
" Pension and Pretended Naturalisation in France," 
from which I excerpt the following important and 
interesting and, in its mingled humour, pathos, and 
satire thoroughly characteristic biographical frag- 
ment; with which, moreover, I may fittingly end this 
brief introductory note : 

"... I have a confession to make, concerning which 
prudence perchance would enjoin silence. But it is long 
since prudence and I have shared the same bowl. And 
to-day I desire definitely to assert that I never became 
naturalised in France ; and that my naturalisation, which 
has been tacitly accepted as a legal fact, is nevertheless 
merely a German fiction. I do not know what lazy or 
cunning brain invented it. Many compatriots have pre- 
tended, it is true, to have traced this rumour of naturalisa- 
tion to an authentic source; they point to the statements in 


the German newspapers, and my silence confirmed the 
error. My amiable literary and political adversaries in my 
own country, and many very influential intimate enemies 
here, in Paris, were also deceived ; they believed that a 
right of French citizenship protected me against all sorts 
of vexations and machinations, such as readily beset the 
stranger, here subjected to a special jurisdiction. 

" This fortunate misapprehension saved me from much ill- 
will, also from endless exploiting of self-seekers, who, in the 
conflict of affairs, would have used their privileged position 
to their own profit. In the long run, the position of the 
non-naturalised stranger becomes, in Paris, as disagreeable 
as it is costly. He is duped and worried, especially by 
naturalised strangers, who with sordid eagerness abuse the 
rights they have acquired. As a wise precaution, I decided 
one day to fulfil the formalities, which really engaged me 
to nothing, but, nevertheless, put me in the way, in case of 
necessity, to obtain without delay the rights of citizenship. 
But I ever shrank, in secret terror, from the definite act. 
These hesitations, this deeply-rooted repugnance against 
naturalisation, placed me in a false situation, a position I am 
now forced to consider as the cause of all my cares, of all my 
slights, during my twenty-three years of residence in Paris. 
The revenue of a good post would have sufficed here to 
defray the heavy expenses of my household, and the needs 
of an existence, free and humane rather than agreeable 
and easy. But, without previous naturalisation, the State 
service was closed to me. My friends dangled many a 
dignity and fat sinecure before my eyes; nor was I without 
examples of other aliens who in France have reached to the 
highest degrees of power and honour. And I dare assert 
that I, less than others, would have had to struggle against 
native jealousy; for no other German has ever enlisted to 


so great an extent the sympathies of the French, either in 
the literary world or in society, where the most prominent 
men have ever sought to enter into relations with me, not 
as patrons but as comrades. The chivalric prince, the 
nearest to the throne, who was not only a general and 
distinguished statesman, but had also read Der Buck der 
Lieder in the original, would have willingly seen me in the 
service of France, and his influence would have been great 
enough to push me in that career. I cannot forget the 
amiability with which, one day, in the castle garden of a 
princely friend, the great historian of the French Revolution 
and of the Empire who was then the all-powerful President 
of the Council took my arm, and, walking with me, urged 
me insistently to tell him the desire of my heart, with a 
promise to procure me anything. The flattering tones of 
his voice still resound in my ear; I still smell the perfume 
of the great magnolia in flower, before which we strolled, 
that magnolia with its beautiful alabaster blossoms, which 
rose into the azure air, as magnificent, as proud as the heart 
of the German poet in the days of his happiness. 

"Yes, I have uttered the true word. It was the lofty pride 
of the German poet that prevented me, even for form's sake, 
from becoming French. It was an ideal chimera, of which 
I could not free myself. Compared with what is usually 
termed patriotism, I was always a renegade ; but I could 
never protect myself against a feeling of anguish whenever 
a project seemed, however distantly, to point to a divorce 
from my country. Even in the souls of the most en- 
lightened men there lingers a little root of the mandragora 
of old superstition, that cannot be extirpated. It is spoken 
of but rarely, but nevertheless it puts forth its imprudent 
sprouts in the most mysterious byways of our soul. The 
marriage that I contracted with Our Lady of Germany, our 


dear Germania, the fair guardian of the bears, 1 was never 
a happy one. I remember certain beautiful moonlit nights 
when she pressed me tenderly to her ample bosom, that 
virtuous breast ; but those sentimental nights can be 
counted, and ever towards morning there came a sadden- 
ing coolness, accompanied by yawns and endless scoldings. 
Thus we finished our union with a separation. But matters 
did not proceed so far as a formal divorce. I could never 
persuade myself to separate from my faithful servant. An 
apostasy is hateful to me, and I would never have forsaken 
even a German pussy-cat, not even a German dog, however 
insupportable his flea-abundant fidelity might have become. 
" In this respect the smallest pigling could lay no com- 
plaint against me. Among the elegant and spirituel boars 
of Pe"rigord, who unearthed truffles and fattened thereupon, 
I never denied the modest hogs who, in Teutoburgundian 
forests, or in simple wooden styes, gorged upon the fruits of 
the paternal oak, as did their pious forefathers in the days 
when Arminius fought with Varus. Neither have I lost 
a single thread of my Germanism, a single bell from my 
German cap, and I have preserved the right to attach to 
it the black, red, and gold cockade. I can still say to 
Massmann, 'We German donkeys ! ' If I were a naturalised 
.Frenchman Massmann might answer me, I, only I, am 
a German donkey; you are one no longer.' And there- 
upon he would turn a mocking somersault, that would break 
my heart. No, I have not exposed myself to such reproach. 
Naturalisation may suit others ! A drunken lawyer from 
Deux-Ponts, a head of straw with a brazen forehead and a 
copper nose, may, in order to snatch the post of school- 
master, renounce a country which knows nothing about him, 

1 A play upon the word. The civic nickname of the Berlinese is 
"the bear*." 


and never will know anything; but such a proceeding would 
never suit a poet who has written the most beautiful of 
German lyrics. It would be a horrible thought to me, a 
maddening thought, to have to say that I am a German 
poet and at the same time a naturalised Frenchman. I 
should seem to myself like one of those monsters with 
two heads that are exhibited in the booths of a fair. If 
I were composing, it would be an insufferable annoyance 
to think that one of the heads would begin to scan the most 
artificial alexandrines, in the patois of a French turkey, while 
the other expressed his sentiments in the true classical metre 
of the German language. Alas ! French verse, that scented 
curds, is as insupportable to me as its metre! I can 
scarcely stomach .their best, perfectly odourless poets. 
When I consider the so-called lyrical poetry of the French, 
it is then I recognise the splendid beauty of German 
poetry. In those moments I can easily make myself believe 
that there only I have gathered my laurels. No : we will 
not renounce one single leaf; and the stone-cutter, who 
shall decorate the place of our last sleep, will be contradicted 
by no one if he carve on the tomb these words : 'Here lies 
a German poet? " 



WHAT is music? This question occupied my mind for 
hours last night before I fell asleep. The very existence 
of music is wonderful ; I might even say miraculous. Its 
domain is between thought and phenomena. Like a twi- 
light mediator it hovers between spirit and matter, related 
to both, yet differing from each; it is spirit, but spirit 
subject to the measurement of time; it is matter, but 
matter that can dispense with space. 

We do not know what music is. But we know what is 
good music, and still better do we know what is bad music ; 
for our ears are greeted by the latter with greater frequency. 
Musical criticism can base itself upon experience alone, and 
not upon synthesis ; it should classify musical works only 
by their analogies, and should take as criterion the collective 
impression produced. 

Nothing is more inadequate than the theory of Music. 
Undeniably it has laws, laws mathematically determined. 
These laws, however, are not music, but the conditions 
thereof; just as the art of design and the theory of colours, 
or even the palette and the pencil, are not painting but the 
means necessary thereto. The essence of music is revela- 
tion ; it permits of no analysis, and true musical criticism 
is an experimental science. 



I know nothing less edifying than a criticism by Mr. Fetis 
or by his son Mr. Foetus, wherein the merits and demerits 
of a musical work are demonstrated & priori. Such 
criticism, written in a certain argot, interlarded with 
technical expressions familiar only to the executant artist 
and not at all to the general educated world, gives to 
empty verbiage a certain authority in the eyes of the mass 
of people. Just as my friend Detmold has written a 
handbook upon painting, which enables one to acquire a 
knowledge of the art in two hours, so ought some one 
to write a handbook upon music, and, by means of an 
ironical vocabulary, of critical phrases and of orchestral 
jargon, put an end to the feeble handiwork of a Fetis and 
a Foetus. The best musical criticism I ever listened to, 
and perhaps the most convincing criticism possible, I over- 
heard at Marseilles last year, during a table d'hote. Two 
commercial travellers were discussing the topic of the day, 
whether Rossini or Meyerbeer be the greater master. As 
soon as one had attributed the higher excellence to 
the Italian master, the other demurred; not with dry 
words, however, for he trilled some of the especially 
beautiful melodies from Robert le Diable. Thereupon 
the first could find no more convincing repartee than 
zealously to sing counter passages from Le Barbier de 
Seville^ and thus did they both continue throughout 
the repast. Instead of a noisy exchange of insignificant 
phrases, they gave us most exquisite table music, and 
finally I had to admit that people either should not dis- 
pute at all concerning music, or should do so in this 
charmingly realistic fashion. 

Take note, dear friend, that I have no intent to weary you 
with any conventional tirade upon the Opera. Neither have 
you to fear a discussion of comparisons, such as are usually 


made between Rossini and Meyerbeer. I content myself with 
loving both, not the one at the expense of the other. Even 
if I perhaps sympathise more with the first than with the 
second, that is merely from a personal sentiment, and in no 
sense involves an attribution to him of superior merit. Per- 
haps there are imperfections in him that have a close affinity 
to corresponding imperfections in me. I incline by nature 
to a certain do Ice far niente; willingly I stretch my length 
on a flowering mead, thus to contemplate the quiet pro- 
cession of the clouds and revel in their lights and shadows. 
Chance has often willed that I should be roused from this 
delightful dreamland by a hard dig in the ribs from Fate. 
I have been constrained to take part in the sufferings and 
struggles of my time: my participation therein was honour- 
able; I fought with the bravest . . . but I don't know 
how to explain myself my sensations always retained a 
certain dissimilarity from those of other people; I knew what 
my neighbours were feeling, but I experienced emotions 
remote from theirs. Although I urged my battle charger 
not less impetuously, and fell on the enemy as merci- 
lessly with my sword, neither the fever, nor the lust, 
nor the agony of war took possession of me. My mind was 
oftentimes disturbed because of this inner serenity; I found 
that my thoughts often tarried elsewhere while I threw 
myself into the thickest press of the party fight. Thus to 
myself I seemed like Ogier the Dane, who fought against the 
Saracens in his dream wanderings. Such an one as myself 
would naturally prefer Rossini to Meyerbeer, though at certain 
times he would render enthusiastic homage to the music 
of the latter without yielding undivided allegiance to it. 
For it is on the waves of Rossini's music that the distinc- 
tive joys and sorrows of individual man are rocked most 
gently: love and hatred, tenderness and longing, jealousy 


and poutings, all the isolated emotions of the solitary 
soul. Rossini's music is characterised by a predominance 
of melody, always the direct expression of an isolated 
sentiment. With Meyerbeer, on the contrary, harmony 
preponderates. In the stream of harmonic measures the 
melodies are engulfed, just as the particular impressions 
of the individual are lost in the collective sentiment of a 
whole people. On this harmonious stream our soul 
launches itself joyfully, when absorbed in the sufferings 
and joys of the whole human race, and in touch with the 
great social questions. Meyerbeer's music is social rather 
than personal. The grateful Present finds its internal and 
external struggles revealed in this music, its soul's dissen- 
sions, the warring of its will, its agonies, and its hopes ; in 
applauding the great maestro it celebrates its own sorrows 
and ecstasies. Rossini's music was better adapted to the 
spirit of the Restoration ; when, after terrible struggles and 
manifold disillusionments, the idea of their great collec- 
tive interests had dwindled into the background in the 
blase minds of men, and of the ego was enabled once 
again to assert its legitimate claims. Rossini would 
never have gained his great popularity during the Revolu- 
tion : Robespierre would perhaps have accused him of 
antipatriotic melodies, and Napoleon would not have ap- 
pointed him bandmaster to the grand army, a post for which 
communal enthusiasm was a first necessity. . . . Poor swan 
of Pesaro 1 the Gallic cock and the imperial eagle would 
probably have torn thee to pieces. More suitable to thee 
than fields of battle or than civic virtue, were a quiet lake 
from whose banks the gentle lilies softly called to thee, 
where thou couldst swim hither and thither, grace and 
beauty in every movement ! The Restoration \\as Rossini's 
time of triumph. Even the stars in the heavens, then 


doubtless celebrating those reposeful hours, and no longer 
preoccupied with the condition of the people, they too 
listened with delight. The July Revolution had produced 
a great commotion in heaven and on earth ; stars and men, 
angels and kings yes, even the good God himself were 
roused from their wonted tranquillity and had a host of 
matters to attend to, so that they had neither the leisure 
nor the repose of mind necessary to enjoy the melodies of 
private sentiment. It was only when the grand choruses of 
Robert le Diable, and even of Lts Huguenots burst forth 
in harmonies of anger, of jubilation, of sobs, that their hearts 
listened and wept, rejoiced and groaned in enthusiastic 

This is perhaps the real reason of the unprecedented, 
colossal success which has everywhere followed these two 
great operas of Meyerbeer. He is the man of his time; 
and time, who always knows how to choose its own, raised 
him amid tumultuous sound upon the shield, proclaimed 
his reign and celebrated his triumphal entry. It is 
not a wholly comfortable position thus to be carried in 
triumph. For, by the misfortune or awkwardness of 
a single shield-bearer, one may find oneself perilously 
balanced if not seriously injured; the crowns of flowers 
that fly at one's head may sometimes hurt more . than 
gratify, if indeed they do not soil when they come 
from dirty hands; the surcharge of laurels may produce 
a sweat of agony. . . . Rossini, when he meets such a 
procession, smiles ironically with his fine Italian lips; then 
he complains about his stomach, whose condition grows 
daily worse, so that he really can eat nothing. 

This is a sorry state of affairs, for Rossini has ever been 
a great gourmand. Meyerbeer is exactly the contrary: as 
with his outward appearance, so in his pleasures he is dis- 


cretion itself. A good table is to be found in his house 
only when he has invited friends. One day when I went to 
dine with him, to take "pot luck," I found him before a 
meagre dish of stock fish; naturally, I assured him I had 
already dined. 

Many have pretended that he is miserly. This is not the 
case. He is miserly only in outlay upon himself. To others 
he is generosity incarnate ; unfortunate compatriots, in par- 
ticular, have benefited by him almost beyond reason. Charity 
is a domestic virtue of the Meyerbeer family, of his mother 
in particular, round whose neck I hang all help-seekers, and 
not in vain. It is true that this woman is the happiest 
mother in the world. Everywhere the rumour of her 
son's renown greets her; wherever she goes, snatches of his 
music flatter her ear; everywhere his glory radiates about 
her; in the opera especially, where a whole public ex- 
presses its enthusiasm for Giacomo with frantic applause, 
her mother's heart throbs with a delight which we can 
hardly realise. In the whole world's history I know only 
one mother who can be compared to her, the mother of 
Saint Borromeo, who in her lifetime saw her son canonised, 
and could, with thousands of believers, kneel before him in 
church and pray to him. 

Meyerbeer is now writing a new opera, which I await 
with great curiosity. The development of this genius is, for 
me, a most remarkable spectacle. I follow with interest the 
phases of his musical and of his personal life, and watch the 
reciprocal attitude between him and his European public. 
It is now ten years since I first met him in Berlin, between 
the University buildings and the Watch-house, between 
science and the drum, and he seemed to feel himself 
ill at ease in that spot. I met him, I remember, in the 
company of Dr. Marx, who in those days belonged to 


a sort of musical regency which, during the minority of 
a certain young genius who was considered to be the 
legitimate successor to the throne of Mozart, paid constant 
homage to Sebastian Bach. This enthusiasm was not 
merely to fill up an interregnum, but also to blast the 
reputation of Rossini, whom the regency especially feared, 
and consequently especially hated. Meyerbeer, in those 
days, passed for an imitator of Rossini; and Dr. Marx 
treated him with a sort of condescension, with an air 
of ineffable superiority, which I now perforce laugh over 

Rossinism was then Meyerbeer's great crime; he had 
not attained to the honour of being attacked on his own 
account. He prudently refrained from all pretension, and 
when I related to him with what enthusiasm I had recently 
seen his Crociato performed in Italy, he said with a mourn- 
ful smile : "You compromise yourself when you praise me, 
a poor Italian, here in Berlin, in the capital of Sebastian 

Meyerbeer was at that period a devoted follower of 
the Italian school. Discontent against the humidly cold, 
intellectually spiritual, colourless Berlinism had early brought 
about a natural reaction in him. He escaped to Italy, 
rejoiced gaily in the sunny life, gave himself up entirely to 
his personal inclinations, and composed those exquisite 
operas wherein Rossinism is pushed to its sweetest 
exaggeration, wherein gold is gilded over anew, and 
flowers are perfumed with stronger scents. This was 
Meyerbeer's happiest time. He wrote in the gentle in- 
toxication of Italian sensuousness; in life as in art he 
culled the lightest flowers. 

But all this could not long suffice a German nature. A 
sort of home-sickness awoke in him for the earnestness of 


his country. While he lay under Italian myrtles, the 
memory of the mysterious rustle of the oak forests stole 
over him; while the zephyrs of the south wafted about him, 
he thought of the dark chorale of the north wind. It 
happened with him perhaps as with Madame de Se'vigne', 
who while she lived by the side of an orangery and 
breathed only the scent of the orange blossoms, ended 
by longing for the rank but wholesome smell of a manure 
cart. . . . 

In short, a new reaction took place, Signer Giacomo 
suddenly became German again. He attached himself 
once again to Germany; not to the old worm-eaten 
Germany with its short-winded, pike-bearing citizens, but 
to the new, big-hearted, free Germany of a new generation, 
which has made all humanitarian questions its own, and 
carries these great questions of humanity, if not always on 
its banners, so much the more ineffaceably in its heart. 

Shortly after the July Revolution Meyerbeer appeared 
before the public with a new work, which had germinated 
in his mind during the horrors of that period. Robert 
le Diable, the hero who does not exactly know what he 
wants and is perpetually at strife with himself, is a faithful 
picture of the moral fluctuations of that time, a time wherein 
virtue and vice oscillated painfully, an era which fretted itself 
with endeavours and obstacles, and had not always sufficient 
strength to withstand the attacks of Satan ! 1 do not at 
all like this opera, this masterpiece of cowardice. I say 
cowardice, not only from the point of view of the subject- 
matter, but also that of the execution. For the 
composer does not trust fully to his genius, dares not 
give free rein to his impulses, and is the trembling servitor 
of the masses, instead of the dominating master. It was 
with good reason that Meyerbeer was formerly called a 


timid genius. He lacked the compulsion of belief in 
himself, he bowed to public opinion. The slightest censure 
frightened him. He flattered every caprice of the people, 
gave the heartiest hand-shakes indiscriminately right and 
left, as though he recognised the sovereignty of the people 
in music, and based his rule upon the majority of votes: 
all this in contradistinction to Rossini, who reigned as 
king absolute in the empire of music by the grace of God. 
He has not wholly freed himself from anxiety in the affairs 
of private life; but the success of Robert le Diablc has at 
least had this salutary result, that he is no longer hampered 
by those cares while he is at work, that he composes with 
much greater confidence, that he allows the strong bent of 
his soul to find expression in his creations. And it was in 
this freer condition of mind that he composed Les ffuguenofs, 
wherein all uncertainty has vanished, and the inner self com- 
bat has ceased, wherein the exterior duel has commenced 
which astounds us by its colossal dimensions. By this 
work Meyerbeer has won, never again to lose, his 
citizenship in the eternal city of fine minds, in the 
Jerusalem of celestial art. For in Les Huguenots he 
at last manifests himself fearlessly; he has drawn all his 
thoughts in firm, bold outlines; has dared to express the 
agitation of his heart in unrestrained tones. 

The distinguishing mark of this work is its equilibrium, 
the balance between enthusiasm and artistic perfection, or, 
to express it better, the equal height to which art and passion 
rise. The man and the artist are in close rivalry; when 
the one peah the tocsin of wildest passion, the other 
knows how to tune these rude accents of nature to sweetest, 
most penetrating harmonies. While the mass of the 
audience is struck by the interior power, by the passion 
of Les Huguenots, the art lover admires the masterly hand- 


ling of which the whole form is witness. This work is like 
a Gothic cathedral whose heaven-soaring spire and colossal 
cupolas seems to have been planted there by the sure hand 
of a giant; whereas the innumerable festoons, the rosettes, 
and arabesques that are spread there over it everywhere like 
a lace-work of stone, witness to the indefatigable patience 
of a dwarf. A giant in the conception and design of the 
whole, a dwarf in the fatiguing execution of details, the 
architect of Les Huguenots is as incomprehensible to us as 
the builders of the old cathedrals. 

When, recently, I stood before the Cathedral at Amiens 
with a friend, and my friend contemplated with amazement 
this monument whose rock-like towers were the expression 
of gigantic strength, and the little carved stone figures of 
dwarf-like endless patience, he asked me at last why it is 
that we, to-day, are incapable of building such edifices, I 
answered him, " Dear Alphonse, the men of olden times 
had convictions; we modern men have only opinions, and 
more than these are needed to raise cathedrals." 

That is it. Meyerbeer is a man of convictions. Properly 
speaking, however, these do not ern brace the social ques- 
tions of the day, although with regard to these questions the 
ideas of Meyerbeer are more firmly grounded than those of 
other artists. 

Meyerbeer, upon whom the united praises of the earth 
shower all possible marks of honour, and who, moreover, 
relishes these distinctions greatly, Meyerbeer, nevertheless, 
carries in his breast a heart which beats in the sacred interests 
of humanity, and he unswervingly confesses his devotion 
to the heroes of the Revolution. 

It is lucky for him that so many of the governments of 
the north do not understand music, otherwise they would 
discern more than a party struggle between Protestants 


and Catholics in Les Huguenols. However, these artistic 
convictions are not precisely political, still less reli- 
gious convictions. His religion is merely negative. 
Unlike other artists, perhaps out of pride, he will never 
soil his lips with a lie; he declines certain importunate 
benedictions which could not be accepted without com- 
mitting an equivocal action, or one certainly the reverse of 
magnanimous. Meyerbeer's real religion is that of Mozart, 
Gluck, Beethoven, music; in this alone he believes, in 
this faith only does he find happiness, and he lives in a con- 
viction not inferior to that of antecedent centuries in its 
depth, passion, and duration. Yes, I might truthfully say 
that he is the apostle of this religion. He treats everything 
that concerns his music with truly apostolic zeal and ardour. 
Whereas other artists are content when they have created 
something beautiful and not unfrequently lose all interest in 
their work as soon as it is completed, Meyerbeer, on the 
contrary, gives the greatest care to his children after their 
birth. He gives himself no rest till the creation of his 
mind reveals itself with equal clearness to the rest of 
mankind, till the whole public is edified by his music, till his 
operas have poured into every heart the sentiments which 
he wishes to preach to the whole world ; in short, till he has 
put himself in touch with the whole of humanity. As with 
an apostle who, in order to save one lost soul, fears neither 
weariness nor pain, so also Meyerbeer, if he learn that some 
one denies his music, will unweariedly waylay the renegade 
until he has converted him. And this single saved lamb, 
be he the most insignificant bookworm-soul, becomes dearer 
to him than whole troops of believers who have always 
revered him with orthodox fidelity. 

Music is Meyerbeer's religion, and this is perhaps the 
cause of all those anxieties and cares which the great master 

12 HEINE. 

so often allows to come to light, and sometimes provoke 
a smile. When a new opera is under study, he is the 
plague of all the musicians and singers, whom he torments 
with incessant rehearsals. He is never perfectly satisfied. 
A single false note in the orchestra is a dagger-thrust 
from which he thinks he will die. This disquietude con- 
tinues long after the opera has been represented and 
received with storms of applause. He still torments him- 
self, and I believe he will never be contented until a few of 
the thousands of men who have listened to and admired his 
opera, are dead and buried ; from those at any rate he need 
fear no apostasy, of those souls he can be sure. The day 
his opera is performed, the good God even can do nothing 
to his liking; if it rains or is cold he fears that Mademoiselle 
Falcon will catch cold; if, however, the evening is warm 
and clear, he trembles lest the fine weather should tempt 
people out of doors and the theatre thus be deserted. 

Nothing equals the anxiety with which Meyerbeer, when 
at last the music is printed, watches over the correc- 
tions. This indefatigable desire to improve during the 
correction of proofs has become a proverb among Parisian 
artists. But it must be remembered that music is dear to 
him above all things, assuredly dearer than life. When the 
cholera began to rage in Paris, I counselled Meyerbeer to 
quit as soon as possible ; but he had business to attend to 
for a few days more, which he could not forego; he had 
to arrange with an Italian for the Italian libretto of Robert 
le Diable. Les Huguenots, still more than Robert le Diable, 
is a work of conviction, with regard to subject-matter, 
and also form. As I have already remarked, while the 
mass of his audiences is enchanted by the subject-matter, 
the attentive observer admires the immense art progress, 
the new forms which herein appear. In the opinion of 


the most competent judges, all musicians who intend to 
write for the opera must henceforth first of all study 
Les Huguenots. It is in instrumentation that Meyerbeer 
has gone furthest. The choruses are written in an un- 
precedented manner, they express themselves like indi- 
viduals, and have overstepped all previous traditions of 
the opera. Since Don Giovanni there has certainly been 
no phenomenon in music so great as the fourth act of 
Les Huguenots, where the terrible and moving scene of the 
blessing of the swords the consecration of murder is 
followed by a duet which surpasses the first effect; a 
colossal stroke which was hardly to be expected of this 
anxious genius, whose success excites our surprise as much 
as our delight. For my own part, I believe that Meyer- 
beer accomplished this last not by artistic means but by 
natural means, inasmuch as that famous duet expresses 
a series of sentiments which perhaps have never been re- 
produced, certainly never with such verisimilitude, in an 
opera, but with which, nevertheless, the most ardent and 
turbulent spirits of our time are in sympathy. For myself, 
I confess that never before has music made my heart beat as 
impetuously as during the fourth act of Les Huguenots, yet 
I can turn away from this act and its emotions to listen 
with infinitely greater pleasure to the second act. This 
is an idyll whose grace and charm recall the romantic 
comedies of Shakespeare, and still more perhaps the 
Aminta of Tasso. Indeed, under the roses of joy there 
smiles a gentle sadness akin to that of the unfortunate 
poet of the court of Ferrara. It is more the desire for joy 
itself; it is no whole-hearted laughter, but a smile from the 
heart, from a heart that is secretly ill, and can dream only 
of health. How comes it that an artist, who from his 
cradle has been spared all the blood-sucking cares of life, 

14 HEINE. 

born in the lap of riches, tended by his whole family - 
that readily, nay with enthusiasm, gratified all his longings, 
who seems prepared for happiness as no other mortal 
artist has been, how comes it that this man has never- 
theless experienced these terrible sufferings which sob and 
sigh through his music? For what he has not himself 
experienced, the musician could not reproduce with so 
much power and emotion. It is strange that this artist, 
whose material needs are satisfied, should be preyed upon 
by such unbearable mortal agonies ! But it is good fortune 
for the public, which owes its most ideal joys to the sorrows 
of the artist. The artist is that child of whom fairy 
tales relate that his falling tears were pearls. Alas ! the 
wicked stepmother, the world, beats the poor child 
most pitilessly, in order that he may weep as many pearls 
as possible. 

Les Huguenots, still more than Robert le Diable> has been 
censured for lack of melody. This reproach proceeds from 
an error. The trees are not seen on account of the forest. 
Melody is here subordinate to the harmony. When com- 
pared with Rossini's music, in which the reverse is the case, 
I have already pointed out that it is this predominance 
of harmony which characterises Meyerbeer's music as the 
emotional music of humanity, of modern society. As a 
matter of fact there is no lack of melodies; only they 
are not allowed to stand out crudely, I might even say 
egotistically; they must subserve the whole. They are 
disciplined; whereas with the Italians they appear isolated, 
I might almost say outside the pale of the law, and they 
impose themselves somewhat after the manner of their 
illustrious bandits. How many soldiers, in a great battle, 
fight unnoticed but just as well as Kalabrais, the solitary 
bandit whose personal bravery would have impressed us 


less had he fought in the rank of regular troops. I will 
not contest the value of a certain predominance of melody. 
But I must observe that one of the results of it in Italy is 
the indifference shown for the opera as an ensemble, for 
the opera as a complete work of art ; an indifference which 
manifests itself so naively, that, when no aria is being sung, 
the occupants of the boxes hold receptions and talk, if they 
do not even play at cards. 

The predominance of harmony in the creations of 
Meyerbeer is perhaps a necessary consequence of a 
wide culture that embraces the world of thought and of 
phenomena. Whole treasures were disbursed upon his 
education, and he had a very susceptible mind. He was 
initiated into all the sciences at an early age, and is 
distinguished in this respect from most masters of music, 
whose brilliant ignorance is to a certain extent pardon- 
able, since usually they have lacked time and oppor- 
tunity wherein to acquire much knowledge apart from their 
art. Whatever he learnt became a part of his nature, and 
the school of the world gave him the highest development. 
He belonged to that small number of Germans whom even 
France has recognised as models of urbanity. So high a 
culture was perhaps necessary in order to gather together 
the material and shape it with the sure hand that a crea- 
tion such as Les Huguenots required. But it is a question 
whether or not the gain in breadth of conception and clear- 
ness of vision did not involve the loss of other points of view. 

Culture destroys in the artist that fresh accentuation, 
that vivid colouring, that impulsiveness of thought, that 
directness of feeling, so often to be admired in circumscribed 
and uncultured natures. 

Culture, indeed, can only be bought dearly, and little 
Bianca Meyerbeer is right. This little eight-year-old 

1 6 HEINE. 

daughter of Meyerbeer, envies the idleness of the little 
boys and girls she sees playing in the streets, and 
expressed herself recently as follows: 

" How unlucky that I have educated parents ! From 
morning to night I have to learn by heart all sort of 
things; I must sit still and be good while the uneducated 
children down there run about happily the whole day and 
amuse themselves as they please 1 " 


WITH the exception of Meyerbeer, L? Academic royale de 
rnusique possesses few " tone-poets " of whom it is worth while 
to speak in detail. And yet the French Opera has never been 
in a more flourishing condition, or, to speak with more 
exactitude, has never taken better receipts. This prosper- 
ous era commenced six years ago under the direction of 
the celebrated M. Veron, whose principles have since 
been applied with similar success by the new director, M. 
Duponchel. I say principles, for as a matter of fact M. 
Ve>on had definite principles, the result of his reflections 
upon art and science; and in the same way that, as apothecary, 
he discovered an excellent cough mixture, he as director of 
the opera invented a preservative against music. That is to 
say, he had observed in himself that a spectacular piece by 
Franconi gave him more pleasure than the best opera ; he 
therefore convinced himself that the greater majority of the 
public was animated by the same feeling; that most people 
go to the grand opera from custom, and even then only 
find enjoyment when beautiful decorations, costumes, and 
dances absorb their attention, so that they hear absolutely 
nothing of the terrible music. 

The great Ve"ron conceived the genial idea of indulging 
to the highest degree, the popular liking for spectacular 
performances, so that the music should irk them no longer, 


1 8 HEINE. 

and they should find as much pleasure at the Grand Opera as 
at Franconi's. The great Ve'ron and the great public under- 
stood one another: the one knew how to make the music 
unobtrusive, and under the name of Opera gave only spec- 
tacular pieces; the other, the public, could now go with 
wife and daughters to the Opera as behoved educated people, 
without being obliged to die of ennui. America was 
discovered : the egg stood on its pointed end : the opera- 
house filled daily, Franconi was deserted and became 
bankrupt, and M. Ve'ron is a rich man. The name of 
Veron will live eternally in the annals of music ; he has 
embellished the temple of the goddess, but the door has 
been shut upon the goddess herself. Nothing equals the 
luxury that has taken the upperhand at the Grand Opera; 
it is now the paradise for all who are hard of hearing. 

The present manager follows the principles of his pre- 
decessor, although his personality offers the most marked 
contrast. Have you ever seen M. Ve'ron? At the Cafe 
de Paris, or on the Boulevard de Coblence, you cannot 
have failed to meet that fat caricature of a figure, with 
hat on one side of a head quite buried in an enor- 
mous white cravat, and a collar well up over his ears to 
conceal a conspicuous mark on his neck, so that the red 
jovial face and small blinking eyes are hardly discernible. 
He hugs himself complacently in the consciousness of his 
knowledge of men and of his prosperity, and with insolent 
complacency sees himself surrounded by a court of young, 
middle-aged, and alsomore elderly dandies of literature, whom 
he willingly regales with champagne or pretty figurantes I 
He is the god of materialism, and his look, devoid of mind, 
has often pierced my heart like a spear of steel when I have 
met him: sometimes, even, it has seemed to me as though a 
swarm of glittering viscous little worms crawled from his eyes. 


M. Duponchel is a haggard, pale, yellow man, with, if not a 
noble, at least a distinguished air, a sad funereal expression; 
some one has appropriately nicknamed him " un deuil 
perpctuel" From his outward appearance one would take 
him to be the inspector of Pere-Lachaise rather than the 
manager of the Grand Opera. He reminds me always of 
a melancholy court fool of Louis XIII. This knight of the 
sad face is to-day "Master of pleasures" to the Parisians; 
and I would much like from time to time to watch him 
when, alone in his dwelling, he cogitates over some new 
buffoonery wherewith he may rejoice his sovereign, the 
French public ; when he mournfully shakes his sad head, so 
that the bells of his black cap ring with sighs, or when he 
colours the design of a new costume for the "Falcon," or 
when he seizes the red book to see if Taglioni ... or ... 

The preceding remarks will have made you understand 
the actual importance of the Grand French Opera. It has 
effected a reconciliation with the enemies of Music ; and, as 
at the Tuileries, the well-to-do bourgeoisie has also pushed 
its entrance into the Academy of Music, while the more 
distinguished "Society" has quitted the field. The fine 
aristocracy, that elite distinguished by rank, education, 
birth, fashion, and leisure, has taken refuge at the Italian 
Opera, the musical oasis where the renowned nightingales 
of art still trill their fiorilura, where the enchanted rills of 
melody still flow, where the palms of beauty with proud 
fans still give the signal of applause . . . while all around 
stretches a colourless desert of sand, a Sahara of Music. 
Now and again, however, a few good concerts resound in this 
desert and bestow an unwonted refreshment on the music- 
lover. This winter there were Sundays at the Conserva- 
toire, and a few select parties at the Rue de Bondy, and, 

20 HEINE. 

in particular, concerts given by Berlioz and Liszt. These 
two last are quite the most remarkable phenomena of the 
Parisian musical world. I say remarkable, not the most 
beautiful, nor the most agreeable. From Berlioz we shall 
soon have an opera. The subject is an episode in the life 
of Benvenuto Cellini, the casting of "Perseus." Something 
very much out of the common is expected, for this com- 
poser has already produced uncommon things. The bent 
of his mind is towards the fantastic, blent not with sentiment 
but with sentimentality; there are marked analogies be- 
tween him and Callot, Gozzi, and Hoffman. It is even 
apparent in his outward appearance. What a pity it is 
that he has cut his great antediluvian locks, the bristling 
hair that rose from his forehead like a forest about a steep 
escarpment of rocks ! It was thus I saw him for the first time, 
six years ago, and thus he will always remain in my memory. 
It was at the Conservatoire de Musigue, when a big symphony 
of his was given, a bizarre nocturne, only here and there 
relieved by the gleam of a woman's dress, sentimentally white, 
fluttering to and fro or by a flash of irony, sulphur yellow. 
The best thing in the composition is aWitches' Sabbath where- 
in the devil reads the mass, and church music is parodied 
with the most terrible and savage buffoonery. It is a farce 
wherein all the hidden vipers we carry in our hearts hiss 
joyously aloud. My neighbour in my box, a communica- 
tive young man, pointed out to me the composer, who was 
sitting at the extremity of the hall in a corner of the 
orchestra, playing the kettle-drum. For the kettle-drum is 
his instrument. " Do you see that stout Englishwoman in 
the proscenium? That is Miss Smithson ; for nearly three 
years Berlioz has been madly in love with her, and it is 
this passion that we have to thank for the wild symphony 
to which we are listening to-day." 


There, in one of the stage-boxes, sat the celebrated 
Covent Garden actress; Berlioz had his eyes fixed on her, and 
every time that her look met his, he struck his kettle-drum 
like a maniac. Since then Miss Smithson has become 
Madame Berlioz, and it is also since then that her husband 
has allowed his hair to be cut. When at the Conservatoire 
this winter I again listened to his symphony, he again sat 
as kettle-drum player at the back of the orchestra, the 
stout Englishwoman was again in the stage-box, again 
their looks met, . . . but he no longer struck his kettle- 
drum with mad fury. 

It is Liszt who of all composers has the most elective 
affinity with Berlioz, and it is he also who is the best 
executant of his music. I need not discourse to you 
about his talent : his fame is European. He is incon- 
testably the artist who found the greatest number of 
enthusiasts in Paris, if, also, the most vehement de- 
tractors. It is a significant sign that no one speaks of 
him with indifference. Without a positive value it is 
impossible in this world to evoke either partisan or 
hostile passions. Fire is needed to enflame men, whether to 
love or to hatred. The best witness in Liszt's favour is the 
personal esteem in which friends and foes alike hold him. 
He is a man of eccentric character, but noble, disinterested 
and guileless. The tendencies of his mind are most remark- 
able. Speculation has the greatest fascination for him ; 
and still more than with the interests of his art he is en- 
grossed with all manner of rival philosophical investigations 
which are occupied with the solution of all the great ques- 
tions of heaven and the earth. For long he was an ardent 
upholder of the beautiful Saint-Simonian idea of the 
world. Later the spiritualistic or rather vaporous thoughts 
of Ballanche enveloped him in their mist; now he is 

22 HEINE. 

enthusiastic over the Republican-Catholic dogmas of a 
Lamennais who has hoisted his Jacobin cap on the cross. , . 
Heavens knows in what mental stall he will find his next 
hobby-horse ! 

But this unquenchable thirst for light, for the divine, is 
ever laudable, and is a witness to his leanings towards holi- 
ness, towards religion. That so restless a brain, driven dis- 
tracted by all the sufferings and all the doctrines of the day, 
impelled to concern itself with all the needs of mankind, 
inclined to poke its nose into every pot wherein the 
good God cooks the future : that Franz Liszt cannot be a 
placid player of the piano to peaceable citizens in com- 
fortable nightcaps, is easily understood. When he sits 
down to the piano, when, after having stroked back 
his hair from his forehead several times, he begins to 
improvise, it often happens that he storms all too madly 
over the ivory keys, and there resounds a chaos of 
heaven-high thoughts whence here and there the sweetest 
flowers breathe out their perfume ; so that the hearer is at 
once agonised and enchanted, yet none the less agonised. 

I confess to you that, much as I like Liszt, his music 
does not affect my inner self pleasantly, more especially as I 
am a Sunday child, and so see the spectres that other people 
hear only. For, as you know, at each tone drawn forth by 
his hand, the corresponding figure is evoked in my mind, 
and becomes visible to my inner vision. My brain still 
trembles at the recollection of the last time I heard Liszt 
play at a concert. It was a concert in aid of the unfortu- 
nate Italians at the hotel of that beautiful, noble, and 
suffering princess who so beautifully represents the country 
of her body and that of her spirit, Italy and heaven . . . 
(you certainly must have seen her in Paris, that ideal figure, 
which nevertheless is only the prison-house wherein the 


holy angel soul is confined. . . . But the prison-wall is so 
beautiful, that whosoever stands before it and gazes is as 
one bewitched. . . .) It was at the concert in aid of the 
most deserving of the unfortunate Italians that one day, 
during the bygone winter, I last heard Liszt p'ay. I no 
longer know what he played, but I could swear that it was 
variations on a theme out of the Apocalypse. At first I 
could not see them distinctly, those four mystic animals, 
I could hear their voices only, especially the roaring of the 
lion, and the screeching of the eagle. The ox with the book 
in his hand I saw distinctly enough. What Liszt played 
best of all was his rendering the Valley of Jehoshaphat. 
There were lists as at a tournament, and around the im- 
mense enclosure the people pressed as spectators, deathly 
white and trembling. First, Satan galloped into the lists, 
in black armour, mounted on a milk-white horse. Slowly 
behind him, Death caracolled on his pale horse. Last of 
all rode Christ in armour of gold on a black horse. With his 
sacred spear he straightway thrust Satan to earth, and there- 
after Death, and the onlookers shouted with joy. . . A storm 
of applause was awarded to this performance of the valiant 
Liszf, who rose from the piano exhausted, and bowed to the 
ladies. On the lips of the most beautiful among them 
there dawned the sweet mournful smile at once reminis- 
cent of Italy, and a presage of heaven. 

This same concert had another interest for the public. 
You doubtless know to satiety, from the newspapers, of 
the unfortunate estrangement which exists between Liszt 
and the Viennese pianist Thalberg, and of the commotion 
which an article by Liszt against Thalberg created in the 
musical world, also of the role which lurking enmities 
and gossipings have played alike to the detriment of 
the critic and the criticised At the very height of 

24 HEINE. 

this scandalous strife the two heroes of the day deter- 
mined to play at the same concert, one after the other. 
They both set aside their wounded private feelings in the 
furtherance of a scheme of benevolence; and the public, 
to whom they thus gave the opportunity of contemporan- 
eously recognising and appreciating their particular diver- 
sities, accorded to them a generous and merited approbation. 

It is, indeed, sufficient to make a single comparison 
between the musical temperament of each composer, to be 
convinced that there is as much of hidden malice as 
of narrowness of mind in the endeavour to praise one at 
the expense of the other. Their technical proficiencies 
counterbalance one another; and as regards their spiritual 
character, no more striking contrast could be imagined 
than the noble, soulful, intelligent, good-natured German, 
or, rather, Austrian Thalberg, face to face with the wild, 
lightning-flashing, volcanic, heaven-storming Liszt ! 

Comparison between two virtuosi is usually based upon 
a mistake, such as once also flourished in the domain of 
poetry, that is to say, comparison based on the principle of 
difficulties overcome. But now it is generally admitted that 
metrical form has quite another importance than merely to 
demonstrate the artistic skill with which a poet can mani- 
pulate language, nor do we admire a beautiful poem 
merely because its production is at the cost of much 
labour. In the same manner it will soon be perceived that 
it suffices if a musician can communicate by means of his 
instrument all that he feels and thinks, or what others have 
felt and thought; and that all the tours de force of the 
virtuoso, which testify merely to difficulties vanquished, 
ought to be proscribed as useless noise, and relegated to 
the domain of conjurers, of tumblers, of sword-swallowers, 
and dancers on tight ropes and on eggs. 


It suffices, in a word, that a musician be absolute master 
of his instrument in order that the listener may wholly 
forget the mechanical means, and that the spirit alone is 
made audible. Moreover, since Kalkbrenner carried the 
art of playing to its highest perfection, musicians should 
not lay stress on the further development of technical 
dexterity. Only infatuation or maliciousness can speak 
pedantically of the revolution which Thalberg has accom- 
plished with his piano. A bad service was rendered this 
great and excellent master when, instead of praising the 
youthful beauty, the tenderness and charm of his playing, 
he was represented as a Columbus who has discovered 
an America on the piano, while hitherto others have had to 
toil round the Cape of Good Hope whenever they desired 
to regale their audience with musical spices. How Kalk- 
brenner must have laughed when he heard the new 
discovery talked about ! 

It would be an injustice on my part were I on this 
occasion to omit mention of a pianist who, with Liszt, 
is at present more fted than any other. I allude to 
Chopin, 1 who shines as virtuoso, not merely on account 
of his technical perfection, but also as a composer of the 
highest order. He is a man of the first rank. Chopin 
is the favourite of the Mites who in music seek the highest 
spiritual enjoyment His fame is of an aristocratic kind, 

1 In the original edition this sentence reads as follows: " I allude 
to Chopin, and he serves well as an example to show how it cannot 
possibly suffice an extraordinary man to enter into rivalry with the 
best of his profession concerning the perfection of his technical 
possibilities. Chopin is not therewith contented, though his hands 
or his dexterity be applauded by the clapping of other hands. He 
strives after more worthy laurels. His ringers are merely his soul's 
servants, and are applauded by people who hear not only with their 
ears, but also with their souls. He is the favourite of the titles" etc. 

26 HEINE. 

perfumed with the praises of good society; it is as dis- 
tinguished as his personality. 

Chopin was born in Poland of French parents, but 
received part of his education in Germany. The influ- 
ences of the three nationalities affect his personality to 
an extent that is very remarkable. He has, in short, 
appropriated the best characteristics of each: Poland 
has bequeathed to him chivalrous tendencies, her his- 
torical sorrows; France, her delicate grace, her charm; 
Germany, her profound romanticism. . . . For the rest, 
nature has given him a slender elegant figure, somewhat 
fragile, a noble heart, and genius. Yes, genius, in the full 
acceptation of the term, must be allowed to Chopin. He 
is not virtuoso only, he is also a poet, he can make us 
apprehend the poetry which lives in his heart, he is a 
"tone-poet," and no enjoyment is equal to that which 
he bestows upon us when he sits down at the piano and 
improvises. Then, he is neither Polish, nor French, nor 
German; he betrays a higher origin, he is of the 
kindred of Mozart, of Raphael, of Goethe; his true 
fatherland is the dream kingdom of Poetry. When he 
is seated at the piano and improvises, it seems to me 
as though a compatriot had come from our well-beloved 
country and told me of the strange things which had 
happened there during my absence . . . sometimes I 
would fain interrupt him with the question, " How fares 
the beautiful Nixey who knew how to wind the silvern 
veil so coquettishly in her green locks ? Does the old 
white-bearded sea-god still pursue his foolish loves ? Are 
the roses there still so inflamed with pride ? The trees, 
do they still sing so beautifully in the moonlight? ..." 

Alas ! I have now lived long in a strange land, and some- 
times to myself, with my innate home-sickness, I seem like 


the Flying Dutchman and his shipmates, who are rocked 
eternally on the cold waves, and sigh vain longings after 
the peaceful quays, the tulips, the myfrowen, the clay pipes, 
and china cups of Holland. . . . "Amsterdam! Amsterdam! 
when shall we touch once more at Amsterdam ? " they sigh 
in the tempest, while the howling winds toss them incessantly 
hither and thither, upon the cursed billows of their aquatic 
hell. How well I understand the woe with which the captain 
of the accursed ship exclaimed one day, " If ever I reach 
Amsterdam, I would rather be a stone at the corner of 
a street than ever quit the town again ! " Poor Vander- 
decken ! 

I hope, dear friend, that these letters will find you cheerful 
and happy, in the roseate flush of life, and that it will not 
happen to me as to the Flying Dutchman, whose home 
letters are usually addressed to those who, during his 
absence, have been dead long years. 

Ah ! how many of those whom I love have passed away 
while my life's barque has been driven hither and thither by 
direst tempests ! I grow giddy, till at last I think that the 
stars are no longer fixed in the heavens, but move in 
passionate circles. I shut my eyes ; then the mad 
dreams seize me in their long arms and drag me to 
unheard-of countries, and to terrible anguish. . . . You 
have no conception, dear friend, how strange, yet how 
wonderful and adventuresome, are the countries I visit in 
my dreams, and how horrible are the sufferings which 
assail me in my sleep. . . . 

Last night I found myself in a huge cathedral. A dim 
twilight brooded therein . . . only, in the topmost spaces, 
through the galleries supported by the first row of columns, 
the flickering torches of a procession threaded its way: first 
the choir-boys clad in red, carrying tapers and banners-of- 

28 HEINE. 

the-cross, then monks in brown garments, and, finally, 
priests in bright-coloured robes. The procession moved 
in the heights round the dome in a terrible and mysteri- 
ous way, but descended little by little, while I below, 
with the unfortunate woman on my arm, concealed my- 
myself, now here, now there, in the nave of the church. I 
no longer know what it was that terrified us; we fled with 
hearts palpitating with anguish, endeavouring at times to hide 
behind one of the giant pillars, but in vain; we fled in ever- 
increasing terror, for the procession wound down the spiral 
staircase, and approached ever nearer to us. , . . The chant 
was inexpressibly mournful, and, what was still more mysteri- 
ous, a tall, pale woman marched in front, no longer young, 
whose face still bore the signs of a great beauty. She 
directed her measured steps towards us, almost like an 
opera-dancer. In her hands she carried a bouquet of 
black flowers, which she presented to us with a theatrical 
gesture, while a real, terrible anguish seemed to weep from 
her great shining eyes. . . . Then, all of a sudden, the 
scene changed, and instead of the dim cathedral, we found 
ourselves in a wild country where the mountains seemed 
to move and to writhe in all imaginable postures, like 
dying men; and where the trees, bearing red flaming 
leaves, seemed to burn, and burned in reality. . . . Then 
the mountains, after the maddest gyrations, suddenly 
fell flat, the trees smouldered away and fell into 
ashes. . . . And at last I found myself alone in a vast 
desolate plain; beneath my feet nothing but yellow sand, 
above me nothing but a dun-coloured mournful sky. 
I was alone. My companion had vanished, and while 
I anxiously sought for her, I found in the sand the statue 
of a very beautiful woman, but with broken arms, like those 
of the Venus of Milo, with the marble sadly mutilated. I 


stood awhile before it in dolorous contemplation, when a 
rider came up upon his charger. It was a great bird, an 
ostrich riding upon a camel, an amusing sight. He, also, 
made a halt before the broken statue, and we conversed 
long together upon art. "What is art?" I asked him. 
And he answered: "Ask that of the great stone Sphinx 
which crouches at the entrance of the Museum at Paris." 

Dear friend, do not laugh at my nocturnal visions. Or 
do you also hold the usual prejudice against dreams ? 

To-morrow I start for Paris 1 Fare you well 1 

THE SALON, 1831. 


THE Salon is now closed ; after the exhibition of the 
pictures held there from the beginning of May. Scant 
attention has for the most part been bestowed upon them, 
for visitors' minds were preoccupied and filled with political 
anxieties. With regard to myself, I visited the capital at 
this date for the first time. Confused as I was with a 
mass of new impressions, I was unable to wander through 
the galleries of the Louvre with the appropriate mental 
quietude. There they were ranged, these beautiful pictures, 
one beside the other, in number about three thousand, 
these poor children of art to whom the crowd threw only 
the alms of indifferent glances. In vain they seemed to 
beg in voiceless appeal for a little sympathy, or an 
admission into a little corner of the heart; those hearts 
were filled with sentiments purely personal or domestic, 
and had neither hearth nor home for those strangelings. 
The exhibition presented neither more nor less than the 
appearance of an orphanage asylum, a collection of child- 
ren, gathered together from all parts, left to their fate, 
and in nowise related one to the other. My soul was 
touched at this sight of defenceless innocence, of youth- 
ful despair. 

THE SALON, 1831. 31 

What wholly different feelings possess us immediately on 
entering one of those galleries of Italian pictures which are 
not exposed like waifs at the mercy of a cold world, but 
suckle at the breast of the great universal mother, contented 
and united like one great family, and speaking, if not always 
the same words, at any rate the same language. 

The Catholic Church was once such a mother of all the 
arts ; now she is impoverished and helpless. Each painter 
works in his own manner and on his own account ; the 
caprice of the moment, the vagaries of the wealthy or of his 
own laggard heart give him his theme ; the palette affords 
him the most brilliant colours, the canvas is long-suffering. 
Moreover, misunderstood Romanticism has infected the 
French painters ; so that each strives to paint quite differ- 
ently from the other; or, to speak in the current phrase- 
ology, to give expression to his own individuality. It is 
not difficult to imagine what sort of pictures are thus 
sometimes produced. 

The French people, who undeniably possess sound judg- 
ment, have not failed justly to censure these abortive efforts, 
and at the same time to recognise genuine originality, to 
fish the pearls out of this sea of coloured canvas. The 
painters whose works have been most appreciated, most 
highly prized, are Ary Scheffer, Horace Vernet, Delacroix, 
Decamps, Lessore, Schnetz, De.laroche, and Robert. I 
shall confine myself to the echo of public opinion; it 
differs little from my own. And as much as practicable 
I will avoid dwelling on mere technical qualities or 
defects; which, indeed, would be out of place, i\ propos of 
pictures exhibited temporarily in a public gallery, and 
would certainly not edify the German reader who has no 
opportunity of seeing these pictures. A glance at the 
subject-matter and importance of the particular work will 

32 HEINE. 

suffice. As a conscientious critic, then, I will make first 
mention of 


This painter's Faust and Marguerite were the chief attrac- 
tion during the first months of the exhibition; that is, 
before the works of Delaroche and Robert were hung. 
Indeed, whoever has never seen any painting by Scheffer 
would at once be struck by his style, a style which finds 
expression in a peculiar scheme of colour. His enemies 
declare that he paints exclusively with snuff and green 
soap. I do not know how far they do him an injustice. 
His brown shadows are not infrequently too artificial, and 
fail to produce the intended Rembrandtesque effect of 
light. Most of his faces are of that terrible colour which 
has at times startled us, when, by chance, we have caught 
sight of our own face, wearied with watching and out of 
humour, reflected in one of those green glasses still to be 
found in old inns where the diligence stops in the morning. 
A closer and more careful scrutiny of Scheffer's pictures 
reconciles one to his manner, and reveals the genuinely 
poetic quality of his treatment ; a warmer feeling breaks 
through these sombre tones, like sunrays through the 
clouds of mist. That morose, solid brushwork, those 
exhausted colours have nevertheless a good effect in the 
Faust and Marguerite pictures. Both are life-size, three- 
quarter lengths. Faust sits in a red mediaeval arm-chair 
near a table strewn with parchment-covered books, on 
which his left arm rests and serves as support to his un- 
covered head. The right arm, with the open hand turned 
outwards, falls the length of his thigh. His garments are the 
colour of blue-green soap; his face, almost in profile, is fawn 
coloured; the features are severe and noble. In spite of the 

THE SALON, 1831. 33 

sickly false colour, the hollow cheeks and faded lips, the 
decay imprinted everywhere, this face still preserves traces 
of its former beauty, a mournfully tender light still beams 
from the eyes ; it looks like a beautiful ruin irradiated by 

Yes, this man is a beautiful human ruin ; in the furrows 
over these weather-beaten eyebrows brood owls learned in 
mystic lore, and behind that forehead lurk wicked ghosts ; 
at midnight the graves of dead desires reopen, pale shadows 
throng therefrom, and through the desolate cells of the 
brain glides Marguerite in disarray. It is to the credit of the 
painter that he has put on the canvas the head of a veritable 
man, and that the mere aspect of it imparts to us the 
feelings and thoughts which agitate the brain and heart of 
this man. In the background, scarcely visible, and of a 
repellent green, the head of Mephistopheles is recognisable, 
the wicked spirit, the father of lies, the Evil One, the God 
of the green soap. 

Marguerite is equally well depicted. She, also, sits upon 
a faded red arm-chair. Her spinning-wheel with full 
distaff lies silent at her side; in her hand she holds an open 
prayer-book, which she does not read, and in which is dis- 
cernible the faded coloured picture of the Mother of God. 
Her head is drooped in such a way that the greater part of 
the face, of which only the profile can be seen, is peculiarly 
shadowed. It is as though the tenebrous soul of Faust had 
projected its shadow upon the features of the gentle girl. The 
pictures hung side by side, and it is thus the more remark- 
able that almost all effects of light are concentrated upon 
Faust's face, whereas in Marguerite's picture the light is not 
diffused on her face but on the contours of her figure. The 
effect thus obtained is of indescribable magic. Gretchen's 
bodice is one of soap green ; a little black cap barely covers 


34 HEINE. 

the crown of her head, and from both sides hangs her shining 
smooth golden hair. Her oval face is noble, touching, and 
the features are of a beauty which would fain hide them- 
selves out of modesty. She is modesty itself, with her 
lovely blue eyes. A silent tear, a mute pearl of sorrow, 
trickles down her cheek. She is indeed Wolfgang Goethe's 
Marguerite; but she has read the whole of Frederick 
Schiller, and she is more sentimental than naive, and much 
more heavily idealistic than gracefully suave. 

Perhaps she is too true and too earnest to be gracious; 
for grace consists in movement. No doubt she thus gains 
something as lasting, as solid, and as real as a good 
louis d'or, which one clasps safely in one's pocket. In a 
word, she is a German maiden; a deep gaze into the 
melancholy violet eyes conjures dreams of Germany, of 
the scented lindens, of the poetry of Hoelty, of the stone 
effigy of Roland before the Rathhaus, of the old co-rector, 
of his rosy niece, of the forester's house with its trophies of 
the chase, of bad tobacco and good companions, of the 
granddame's churchyard tales, of the honest night watch- 
man, of friendship, of one's first love, and of many other 
sweet trifles. ... In fact, Scheffer's Marguerite cannot be 
described. She is more a sentiment than a figure. She is 
a painted soul. Whenever I pass before her, I murmur to 
her instinctively Liebes Kindt 

Unfortunately, the same mannerism is to be found in 
all Scheffer's pictures; and while it suits his Faust and 
Marguerite it is wholly displeasing in subjects which 
demand clear, warm, brilliant tones. There is, for ex- 
ample, his little canvas in which is depicted a dance of 
school children, who, owing to his dull, unsympathetic tones, 
resemble a troop of gnomes. However remarkable his talent 
for portraiture may be indeed, however much originality 

THE SALON, 1831. 35 

of conception in this respect I must concede to him 
his coloration is to me correspondingly repellent. There 
was, however, one portrait in the Salon for which even the 
Scheffer mannerism was eminently appropriate. Only with 
these indefinite, deceptive, decayed, characterless colours 
could the man be painted; to his credit be it said that 
never a thought could be read in his face, and that 
what was evident there was illusory. He is the man 
whom we might kick from behind without the smile in 
front wavering from off his lips. He is the man who 
has perjured himself forty times, and whose talent for 
lying has been profitably used by each succeeding French 
government whenever any deadly perfidy was to be perpe- 
trated. So he reminds us of that ancient user of poisons, 
that Locustor, who dwelt in the house of Augustus like a 
wanton heirloom, and silently and discreetly served one 
Caesar after the other, and one against the other, with her 
diplomatic little potions. When I stand before the picture 
of this false man, whom Scheffer has limned so faithfully, on 
whose face the artist has painted the forty false oaths with 
his hemlock colours, then the thought shivers through me, 
" For whom in London is his latest mixture intended ? " 
Scheffer's Henry IV. and Louis Philippe, life-size equestrian 
portraits, certainly merit especial mention. The first, le roi 
par droit de conqutte et par droit de naissance (king by right 
of conquest and by right of birth), lived before my time; I 
know only that he wears a Henri-quatre beard, but I cannot 
tell how far the resemblance goes. The other, le roi des 
bar/icades, king by grace of the sovereign people, is my 
contemporary, and I can judge whether his portrait is or is 
not like him. I saw it before I had the pleasure of seeing 
his Majesty the king himself, yet I did not recognise him at 
the first glance. I saw him in perhaps too exalted a frame 

36 HEINE. 

of soul, namely, on the first fete of the latest of the 
Revolution festivities, when he rode through the streets of 
Paris, in the middle of the cheering citizen-guards and 
the July decorations; all, like mad people, shouted the 
Parisian and Marseillaise hymn, and danced the Carmagnole 
one with another. His Majesty the king sat high on his 
horse, half like a constrained Triumvirate, half like a 
voluntary prisoner carried along in a triumphal procession. 
A dethroned emperor rode at his side, either symbolically 
or prophetically; his two sons rode near him, like blossom- 
ing hopes, his swollen cheeks glowed from out the forest 
shades of his thick whiskers, and his sweet grey eyes 
shone with pleasure and embarrassment. In Scheffer's 
picture he looks less pleasant, indeed almost gloomy, as 
though he rode through the Place de Greve where his 
father was beheaded; his horse seems to stumble. I think 
that in Scheffer's portrait the top of the head is not as 
pointed as in the illustrious original, of whom this singular 
formation always reminds me of the folk-song 

" A fir tree stands in the deep valley, 
It is broad below and small above. " 

Otherwise the picture is fairly successful, a good likeness ; 
though I was able to discover this resemblance only after I 
had seen the king himself. This seems to me to reflect 
gravely upon the value of the whole of Scheffer's portrait- 

Portrait-painters may be divided into two classes. There 
are those who have the wonderful talent of seizing and 
rendering the feature$ so that to the unknown spec- 
tator is given an exact idea of the face represented, and 
he immediately understands the character of the original 
so adequately that he recognises him at once if he chance 

THE SALON, 1831. 37 

to meet him. We find this is a distinguishing merit 
of the old masters, notably of Holbein, Titian, and Van 
Dyck. In their portraits we are struck with that directness, 
which is an unmistakable guarantee of their verisimilitude 
to the long-deceased originals. "We could swear that 
these portraits are good likenesses," we say involuntarily 
in passing through the galleries. 

We find the second manner of painting portraits among 
French and English artists in particular, who concern 
themselves only with superficial likeness, and throw only 
those traits upon the canvas which recall to our memory 
the face and character of the well-known original. These 
portraits are especially beloved by well-born parents and 
tender spouses who show us their family portraits after 
dinner, and cannot sufficiently impress upon us how lovely 
the little darling looked before he had worms, or what 
a speaking likeness it is of the husband, whom we have not 
the honour of knowing as yet, but whose immediate 
acquaintance we are to make when he returns from 

In respect of colour, Scheffer's Leonore is much more 
distinguished than any of his other works. The subject 
is an episode of the time of the Crusades; it has given the 
artist an opportunity for brilliancy of costume and especially 
for the use of "romantic" coloration. The home-coming 
army passes by, and Leonore fails to recognise her beloved. 
A gentle melancholy pervades the whole picture : nothing 
presages the horrible apparition of the following night. 
I believe, however, that because of the episode being 
in the pious time of the Crusades, that the widowed 
Leonore would, in fact, not have blasphemed God, 
and the dead knight would not have carried her off. 
Burger's Leonore, however, lived in a Protestant sceptical 

38 HEINE. 

age, and her beloved departed in the Seven Years' War 
in order to conquer a portion of Silesia for the friend 
of Voltaire. Scheffer's Leonore, on the contrary, belongs 
to that bygone age of belief, when hundreds and thousands 
of men, animated by religious thought, sewed a red cross 
upon their coats, and wandered to the Orient as pilgrim 
warriors, there to conquer a tomb. Marvellous age ! But 
we men, are we not all knights of the cross, who, in 
spite of all our weary righting, only at the last acquire 
a grave for ourselves ? It is this thought that I read 
reflected on the face of the knight, who, from his tall battle- 
horse, looks down so pityingly upon the sorrowing Leonore. 
She leans her head upon her mother's shoulder. She is 
a drooping flower, who will wither, but who will not 
blaspheme. Scheffer's picture is a beautiful, musical com- 
position; the colour-tones therein are of such cheerful 
melancholy, that they are like a sorrowful spring song. 

Scheffer's other pieces merit our attention. Nevertheless, 
they have been much praised while better pictures by less 
distinguished artists remain unnoticed. Such is the magic 
of a master's name. If a prince wear a Bohemian glass 
stone on his finger, it will always be taken for a diamond; 
should a beggar wear a genuine diamond ring, every one 
will feel convinced that it is only glass. This consideration 
brings me to 


who has by no means invariably sent pure gems to decorate 
the Salon. The most remarkable of his exhibited canvases 
is a Judith in the act of killing Holofernes. She, a 
slender blooming maiden, has just risen from her couch; 
a violet robe, hastily knotted round her loins, falls in folds to 
her feet. The upper part of her body is clad in an under- 

THE SALON, 1831. 39 

garment of pale yellow; the sleeve, falling over the right 
arm, is turned back with somewhat of a butcher's gesture, 
yet with enchanting grace, by the left hand; for the right 
hand holds the curved blade that threatens the sleeping 
Holofernes. There she stands, an exquisite figure, on the 
farther verge of maidenhood, divinely pure, yet spotted by 
the world, like a violated hostage. Her head is wonder- 
fully attractive, and of a strange charm ; her black locks are 
like little serpents which writhe with terrifying grace. The 
face is lightly shaded, and a sweet savagery, a sombre 
loveliness, a sentimental anger is expressed by the noble 
features of the beautiful murderess. Her eyes in particular 
sparkle with sweet cruelty and the lust for revenge; for 
she has the profanation of her own body also to avenge 
on the hated heathen. In truth, he is not especially 
attractive; nevertheless he seems to be bon enfant. He 
sleeps so complacently in the after-beatitude of his bliss; 
perhaps he snores, or, as Louisa says, he sleeps aloud ; his 
lips still move as though they were bestowing kisses. 
Intoxicated with happiness and certainly with wine, 
without any interplay of suffering or illness, Death sends 
him by the hand of this beautiful angel into the white 
land of eternal annihilation. What an enviable fate ! 
When my hour of dying comes, ye gods, let me die like 
Holofernes 1 Is it irony on the part of Horace Vernet, that 
the first rays of the rising sun stream in upon the sleeper, 
while at the same time the night-lamp flickers low? 

Another picture from the same hand represents the present 
Pope. It recommends itself more by the daring of the 
draughtsmanship and colour-scheme, than by its personal 
quality. With head encircled by the triple crown, clad 
in white garments embroidered with gold, and seated 
on a golden chair, this servant of the servants of God 

40 HEINE. 

is carried in procession round the church of St. Peter. 
The Pope himself, though of ruddy colour, looks delicate, 
and is almost obliterated in the white background of 
white incense smoke and white feather fans held high 
above him. But the crimson -liveried bearers of the ponti- 
fical chair are sturdy figures, full of character, with their 
tanned faces framed in falling black hair. The faces of 
three of these men only are visible, but they are admir- 
ably painted. The same praise may be given to the 
capuchins whose heads, or rather the bent backs of whose 
broadly-tonsured heads, are seen. But the fault of this 
picture is in the vaporous insignificance of the principal 
personage, and the forcible importance given to the acces- 
sory figures. In facility of pose and in coloration they 
remind me of Paolo Veronese. But the Venetian magic 
is lacking, that poetry of colour which, like the shimmer of 
the Lagunes, is only superficial, yet which appeals to the 
emotions so marvellously. 

A third picture by Horace Vernet has received much 
applause on account of its bold conception and its colour- 
scheme. It represents the arrests of the Princes of 
Conde, of Conti, and of Longueville. The scene takes 
place on the steps of the Palais-Royale, which the princes 
descend, after having rendered up their swords by the 
order of Anne of Austria. 

The composition permits almost every figure to be re- 
presented in unbroken outline. Conde stands first on the 
lowest steps, he strokes his moustachios meditatively, and 
I know of what he thinks. An officer comes down the first 
steps bearing the princes' swords under his arm. There 
are the three groups, posed naturally, and harmoniously 
allied to one another. Only a man on the highest steps 
of the staircase of Art could have such high-stepping ideas. 

THE SALON, 1831. 41 

Among Horace Vernet's less important pictures is a portrait 
ol Canaille Desmoulins standing on a seat in the Palais-Royale 
and haranguing the people. With his left hand he plucks a 
green leaf off a tree, and in his right he holds a pistol Poor 
Camille, your courage was not higher than that bench; you 
would fain remain there, and you glance around. "Forwards, 
ever forwards ! " is however the one magic word that has 
power to hold our revolutionaries upright; if they remain 
standing and looking around them they are lost, like 
Kurydice, when following the music of her lover's lyre, 
she glanced back at the horror of the underworld. Poor 
Camille ! Poor fellow ! Those were the joyous green days 
of Liberty, when you sprang upon the bench and threw 
open the window to Despotism, and tore up the lantern- 
posts. Later, the joke became very mournful; the foxes of 
the Revolution became befogged leaders, whose hairs stood 
up on end; you heard frightful cries resound, and voices of 
the Gironde called to you out of the Kingdom of Shadows, 
and you glanced fearfully around. 

With regard to the costumes of 1789, this picture is of 
considerable interest. There they are, the powdered hair, 
the narrow garments of the women which widened slightly 
below the hips, the striped coloured frock-coat, the coach- 
man-looking overcoat with the little collarettes, the two 
watch-chains which hung in parallel lines over the abdomen, 
and those vests of the days of terror, with the broad over- 
turned flaps, which have again come into fashion among 
the republican youth of Paris, under the name of gilels 
a la Robespierre. Robespierre himself appears in the 
picture, prominent in his faultless attire and dandified 
manners. As a matter of fact, his exterior was always 
smart and polished, like the blade of a guillotine; his 
interior, his heart, was also as disinterested, incorruptible, 

42 HEINE. 

and invariable as the blade of the guillotine. This 
inflexible strength did not proceed from lack of feeling, 
but from rigid virtue, like that of Junius Brutus, which we 
condemn with our hearts while with our reason we admire 
unboundedly. Robespierre had an especial predilection for 
Desmoulins, his schoolfellow, whom he allowed to be 
executed when this Fanfaron de la liberte preached an 
untimely moderation and encouraged a weakness that was 
dangerous to the State. While Camille's blood flowed on 
the Place de la Greve, it may be that Maximilian's tears fell 
in a lonely room apart. This is no mere idle talk. Not 
long ago a friend told me that Bourdon (de 1'Oise) had 
related to him, that once, when he entered the workroom 
of the Committee of Public Health, there sat Robespierre 
over his "Acts," alone, with sunken head, weeping bitterly. 

I will pass over less important pictures by Horace Vernet, 
the many-sided artist who paints everything sacred sub- 
jects, battle-pieces, still life, animals, landscapes, por- 
traits, everything hastily, almost after the manner of a 
maker of pamphlets. 

I now turn to 


who has exhibited one picture before which I, accordingly, 
saw always such a concourse of people, that I rank it among 
those canvases which have received the greatest share of 
attention. The sacredness of the subject prohibits any 
severe criticism of the colour, which might perhaps not pass 
the ordeal. In spite of certain technical deficiencies, the 
work is permeated with deep thought and is singularly 
attractive. It represents a group of people during the July 
days, prominent among whom is the symbolical figure of a 
young woman. On her head she wears a red Phrygian cap; 
in one hand she carries a gun, in the other a tricoloured flag. 

THE SALON, 1831. 43 

She strides forward over the dead bodies, and excites to 
combat Her beautiful, impetuous body is nude to the waist, 
her face is in bold profile, her features express an impudent 
sorrow: she is a strange combination of a Phryne, of a 
fishwife, and a goddess of Liberty. That she is intended 
to represent the latter is not clearly indicated; this figure 
seems rather to depict the brute force of the people 
throwing off a hated yoke. I must confess that it 
reminds me of those peripatetic female philosophers, of 
those couriers of love, or rather those light lovers, who swarm 
upon the boulevards in the evening. I confess that the 
little chimney-sweep Cupid who, with a pistol in either hand, 
accompanies this street Venus, is probably not soiled with 
soot alone; that the Pantheon candidate, stretched dead upon 
the ground, perhaps trafficked previously in counter-checks 
outside the theatre -doors; that the hero who rushes forward 
with his musket betrays in his face the galleys, and carries 
on his disgusting coat the smell of the assize courts. 
But that was exactly the one thing needful : a great 
thought that should ennoble and sanctify the very dregs 
of the people, of these crafule, and reawaken the slumbering 
dignity in their souls. 

Holy July-days of Paris ! they will bear eternal testimony 
to the original, innate divinity of mankind, which can never 
be completely destroyed. He who has lived through you 
will never more lament over the graves of other days, but 
rather joyfully believe in the resurrection of the people. 

Holy July-days ! How bright was your sun, and how 
great were the people of Paris ! The gods, who from 
the heights of heaven looked down upon this great fight, 
shouted with admiration; they would fain havt quitted 
their golden seats and have descended to earth, in order 
to become citizens of Paris ! But, jealous and anxious as 

44 HEINE. 

they are, they feared lest at last men should reach too lordly 
a height, therefore by means of their subservient priests 
they sought " to blacken the brilliant and smite the lofty 
to the dust." Therefore they incited that Potter cattle- 
piece, the Belgian rebellion. Therefore it came about 
that the tree of liberty in its growth did not reach to the 

In no other picture in the Salon has the colour sunk in 
so much as in Delacroix's July Revolution. Nevertheless, 
this very absence of varnish and of shining surface, together 
with the smoke and dust which envelop the figures like a grey 
cobweb, these sun-dried colours which seem to thirst for a 
drop of water, all this seems to stamp the picture with truth- 
fulness, reality, originality, in short, one finds therein the 
veritable physiognomy of the "July days." 

Among the visitors, there were many who had either taken 
part in these very "days," or who at any rate had been spec- 
tators of what had happened, and these critics could not 
sufficiently praise the picture. " Matin" a shopkeeper called 
out, " those gamins fought like giants ! " A young lady 
observed that the Polytechnic scholars were omitted, 
though they were to be seen in all the other representa- 
tions of the July Revolution, of which very many, over 
forty, paintings were exhibited. An Alsatian corporal 
spoke in German to his comrade: "What a fine work 
of art that painting is ! How truthfully all is depicted ! 
How naturally the dead man who lies on the ground is 
painted ! One might almost swear he is alive ! " 

" Papa," exclaimed a little Carlist girl, " who is the dirty 
woman with the red cap ? " " Well, certainly," sneered the 
noble papa with a sweet smile of superiority, " certainly, 
dear child, she has nothing in common with the purity 
of the lily. She is the goddess of Liberty." " Papa, she 

THE SALON, 1831. 45 

has not even got on a chemise.'' "A true goddess of 
Liberty, dear child, usually has no chemise, and is there- 
fore very bitter towards all people who wear white linen." 

At these words the man drew his cuffs somewhat further 
over his long leisurely hands and said to his neighbour: 
" Your Eminence, should it happen to-day, among those re- 
publicans of the Port St Denis, that an old woman were 
shot dead by the National Guards, her sacred corpse would 
be carried through the boulevards, the people would rise in 
fury, and we would have a new revolution." 

" Tant mieux!" whispered his Eminence, a haggard, 
closely-buttoned man disguised in every-day garments, as 
is now the case with all priests in Paris, from fear of 
public insults, perhaps also on account of evil conscience?, 
" Tant mieux, Marquis, if only many outrages could 
happen so that the measure might be full ! The Revolution 
would then swallow up its own creators, especially those 
vainglorious bankers who have now, God be praised, almost 
ruined themselves." " Yes, your Eminence, they wished to 
abolish us at any cost because we refused to have them in 
our salons. That is the secret of this July Revolution. 
Money was distributed to suburban dwellers, workmen were 
dismissed by heads of factories; wine-sellers were paid to 
give wine mixed with powder gratis, so as to excite the 
people and for the rest, it was the sun ! " 

Perhaps the Marquis is right : it was the sun. 

Especially in the month of July, the sun has always 
enflamed the hearts of Parisians with its most powerful 
beams. Whenever liberty was threatened, the people of 
Paris, drunk with sun, rose up against the rotten Bastille 
and the ordinances of serfdom. The sun and the city 
understand each other wonderfully; they love one another. 
Before the sun sinks towards the sea in the evening, its 

46 HEINE. 

last looks linger with pleasure on the beautiful city 
of Paris, with its last beams it kisses the tricoloured 
standards on the towers of the beautiful city of Paris. The 
French poet was right who proposed that the July festival 
should be celebrated by a symbolical marriage. Long 
ago the Doge of Venice went once a year, in the Bucen- 
tauro, to wed the dominion of Venice to the Adriatic Sea ; 
so should the city of Paris yearly marry herself to the 
sun on the Place de la Bastille, to the great flaming lucky 
star of her Freedom. Casimir Perier did not see this 
realised. He feared the nuptial evening of such a wedding : 
he feared the all-too-strong ardour of such a marriage, and 
the most he could permit was a morganatic union between 
the city of Paris and the sun. 

But I forget that I am only the reporter of an exhibition. 

As such, I now come to the consideration of a painter 
who, while he excites general attention, appeals so pecu- 
liarly to me, that his pictures are to me as coloured echoes 
of the voices of my own heart ; or rather, as the sym- 
pathetic colour-tones which are in accord with what is in 
my heart. 


is the name of the artist who has thus bewitched me. 
Unfortunately, I did not see one of his best works, " The 
Dogs' Hospital," which had been removed before I visited 
the Exhibition. I missed a few other works of his because 
I could not discover them, on account of the crowd, before 
they were withdrawn. 

I at once recognised, however, that Decamps is a great 
painter, when I studied a little picture by him (the first I had 
seen) whose colour and simplicity impressed me greatly. It 
is merely the study of a Turkish building, high and white, 
with here and there little window-holes through which a 

THE SALON, 1831. 47 

Turkish face looks out; below, lies a still pool, wherein 
the chalk-white walls with their red shadows are mirrored, 
sleepily quiet. 

I learned afterwards that Decamps has been in Turkey. 
It was not only his original colouring which struck me so 
much, but the truth expressed by the faithful and unaffected 
tones of his pictures of the East. This is particularly exem- 
plified in his " Patrouille turque." In this picture we see the 
supreme Chief of the Police in Smyrna, the great Hadji Bey, 
who, surrounded by his myrmidons, makes the round of the 
town. With protruding paunch, he sits upright upon a horse, 
in all the majesty of his gross pride ; his insolently arrogant, 
ignorant, swarthy face is overshadowed by a large white 
turban. He holds in his hands the sceptre of his absolute 
bastinadom, and near him, on foot, run nine faithful 
executors of his will, or caprice, agile creatures with short 
thin legs, and almost animal faces, cat-like, he-goatish, 
apeish. Indeed, one of them is formed of a mosaic of a 
dog's muzzle, pig's eyes, donkey's ears, calf's smile, and hare's 
cowardice. In their hands they carry weapons carelessly, pikes, 
guns with the butt end upwards; each, also, has the instru- 
ments of his trade as hireling justice, namely, a spear and 
a bundle of bamboo rods. The houses before which the 
procession passes are chalky white, the earth is a loamy 
yellow : the effect of these darkly-clad figures hurrying 
through the bright foreground in strong relief against the 
equally bright background, is somewhat like that of a 
Chinese Shadowplay. In the evening twilight, the 
strange shadows of the thin legs of men and horses 
add to the weirdly magical effect. Moreover, these 
rascals cut such absurd capers, they make such unheard- 
of leaps; and the very horse itself shoots out its legs 
with such comical swiftness that it seems half to creep on 

48 HEINE. 

its belly and half to fly. Yet it is all these points that 
certain Parisian critics have censured as unnatural and as 

France, also, has its non-progressive art critics, who judge 
every new work after obsolete conventions; master connois 
seurs, who poke round about the studios, and smile their 
approval wherever their fancy is tickled. These gentlemen 
have not failed to pass judgment upon Decamps' picture. 

One, a M. Jal, who publishes a pamphlet upon every 
Exhibition, has sought to decry this very picture in a supple- 
mentary note in Le Figaro. It is his intention to ridicule 
the admirers of this work when he confesses with apparent 
modesty that he is a man who decides according to the 
dictates of his judgment only, and that his poor judgment 
fails to see in this picture by Decamps the masterpiece 
recognised as such by those great minds who do not form 
their conviction by means of reason only. The dear man 
with his judgment ! He little knows how correctly he has 
described himself! 

It is not fitting that the first voice to be heard estimating 
works of art should be that of poor judgment, any more than 
this same judgment should play a chief part in their incep- 
'tion. The germinal idea of a work of art has birth in the 
soul, and the soul draws upon the imagination for the power 
of realisation. Phantasy then throws all her flowers over 
and around the idea; and instead of vitalising it would 
almost smother it, did not judgment limp along and push 
aside the superfluous flowers, or prune them with naked 
garden shears. Judgment maintains order merely; and, so 
to speak, acts as police in the realm of art. In life judgment 
is usually an impassive calculator which reckons up our 
follies. Alas, it is too often merely the auditor of a broken 
heart, and sums up the deficit with deliberate calm. 

THE SALON, 1831. 49 

The great error lies in the reiterated question of the 
critic : " What ought the artist to do ? " 

The question would be more correct thus : " What 
will the artist do ? " or even " What must the artist 

This question, " What ought the artist to do ? " is the 
formula of those art-philosophers who, devoid of any 
innate poetry, have tabulated for their own use the char- 
acteristics of the different masterpieces of art; who have 
laid down a rule for the future upon what already exists, 
have determined classifications, devised definitions and 
principles. They ignore that such abstractions can serve 
only for the criticism of imitations; that every original 
artist, every new genius, must be judged in accordance with 
his own aesthetics. Ancient rules and precepts are still 
less palatable to such minds. " There is no art of fighting," 
Menzel has said, " for the young giant, for he cuts his way 
through every parry." Each genius must be studied and 
judged by his own intentions. Therefore, in such cases, 
the question to be answered is, " Has he the means to 
express his ideas? Were the fitting means employed ?" 

Here we are on sure ground. We no longer measure an 
unusual creation by our subjective requirements, but we 
base ourselves upon the God-given means which the artist 
has at his command for the manifestation of his idea. With 
the recitative arts the means consist in sounds and words; 
with the plastic arts they consist in colour and form. 
Sounds and words, colour and form above all the visible 
are, nevertheless, only the symbols of the idea, symbols 
born in the inmost nature of the artist when moved by {he 
Holy Spirit of the World. His works are only the symbols 
with which he imparts his own ideas to other natures. He 
who expresses the greatest number, and the most profound, 



by the simplest and smallest number of symbols he is the 
greatest artist. 

To me it is of the highest importance that the symbol 
the outward expression of the inward signification should 
above all things charm the senses by and for itself: like the 
flowers of a Selam, which, independently of their mysterious 
language, bloom by and for themselves, and charm by the 
simple grouping into a beautiful and fresh bouquet. But is 
such accord always possible ? is the artist always wholly free 
in the choice and disposition of his mysterious flowers? 
or does he choose and blend them in obedience to an 
inner impulse? 

I answer this question of mystical dependence, in 
the affirmative. The artist resembles the sleep-walking 
princess who, in the gardens of Bagdad, plucked the 
rarest flowers with the prescience of deep love, and bound 
them into a Selam of whose significance she knew nothing 
until she awoke. In the morning she reclined on her 
divan, gazed at her bouquet gathered over night, pondered 
thereon as over a forgotten dream, and finally sent it to 
the beloved Kaliph. The sleek Eunuch who carried it 
rejoiced in these beautiful flowers, without a suspicion of 
their meaning. But Haroun-al-Raschid, the Protector of 
the Faithful, the Follower of the Prophet, the Possessor 
of Solomon's ring, understood instantly the language of 
the bouquet. His heart bounded with joy, he kissed 
each flower, and laughed till the tears trickled down his 
long beard. 

I am neither follower of the prophet, nor possessor of 
Solomon's ring, neither have I a long beard ; yet I can affirm 
that I have understood the beautiful Selam, which Decamps 
has brought us from the land-of-the-morning, far better than 
all the Eunuchs, together with their Kislar-Aga, the great 

THE SALON, 1831. 51 

supreme connoisseur, the intermediary messenger of the 
harem of art. The chattering of these emasculated con- 
noisseurs is insupportable to me, especially the reiterated 
formulas, the well-meaning good advice to young artists, the 
pitiable references to nature, and again to dear nature. 

In matters of art I am a supernaturalist. I believe that the 
artist cannot find all his types in nature, but that the most 
remarkable types are revealed to him in his soul, as the innate 
symbolism of innate ideas, at one and the same moment 
A modern professor of ^Esthetics, who has written ItaJidn- 
jsche Forschungen, has endeavoured to reinstate the old 
principle of imitation of nature, and maintains that the 
plastic artist ought to find in nature all his types. This 
professor, while extolling this, his supreme principle of 
plastic art, has given no thought to one of the most 
primeval of these arts, I mean to architecture, whose types 
man has vainly sought to find in the leaves of the forest and 
the grottoes of the rocks. These types do not lie in 
external nature, their birthplace was in the human soul. 

Decamps may console himself for the criticism which 
complains of an absence of nature in his pictures, and of 
the unnatural way in which the horse of Hadji Bey throws 
his feet and his people run, with the answer that his paint- 
ing is faithful to the truth of phantasy and to the intuitions 
of a dream. As a matter of fact, when sombre figures are 
painted on a bright background, they have a visionary aspect 
and seem not to belong to earth, and in consequence are 
perhaps to be treated in a more airy, more fanciful, and 
less material manner. The blending of animal and human 
characteristics in the figures of this painting is yet another 
reason for an unusual rendering. In this very blending 
lies the source of that ancient humour the Greeks and 
Romans knew so well how to express in their innumerable 

52 HEINE. 

chimerical representations, such as we delight to see 
on the walls of Herculaneum, in the statues of satyrs, 
centaurs, etc. Against the reproach of caricature, the 
artist is sufficiently protected by the harmony of his work, 
that delicious colour-music which resounds so comically 
yet so harmoniously in short, by the magic of his coloration. 
Painters of caricature are rarely good colourists, precisely on 
account of that parcelling of their sentiments which is the 
condition of their aptitude for caricature : the perfection of 
the colour-sense is, on the contrary, born in the soul of the 
artist, is dependent upon unity of sentiment. In Hogarth's 
original pictures in the National Gallery, in London, I could 
see only daubs, which swore at one another, veritable riots 
of crude colours. 

I have forgotten to remark that in these paintings of 
Decamps, some young Grecian unveiled women are seated 
at their window watching the passing of the droll procession. 
Their quietude and their beauty form a very attractive con- 
trast. They do not laugh : His Impertinence on horseback, 
surrounded by doglike, obedient followers, is an everyday 
spectacle to them ; we therefore feel the more thoroughly 
transported into the land of absolutism. 

Lest this canvas should detain me yet longer, I hasten to 
the consideration of a painting by 


which attracted every one by its wonderful verisimilitude, and 
by a very luxury of modesty and simplicity. Visitors stopped 
involuntarily when they came to this canvas, named in 
the catalogue " The Sick Brother." In a miserable garret, 
on a miserable bed, lies a little sick lad whose suppliant 
eyes are turned towards a rough wooden crucifix, nailed 
to the bare wall. At his feet sits another boy, sad and 

THE SALON, 1831. 53 

dejected, with downcast looks. His short jacket and 
his little knickerbockers are clean, but well patched with 
coarse material. The yellow woollen coverlet on the 
bed and the scarcity of furniture or rather the lack of 
it witness to great poverty. This subject is treated in 
a manner which corresponds to, and recalls the pictures of 
Mtirillo's beggar-boys. The sharply-defined shadows, the 
powerful strokes, firm and appropriate, the colours laid on 
deliberately in sober but not sombre tones, give to the 
composition the character that Shakespeare describes as 
" The modesty of Nature." Surrounded by brilliant pictures 
with their glittering frames, this painting must have been all 
the more of a surprise, inasmuch as its frame was old and the 
gilding was blackened and wholly in accord with the artist's 
manner and subject. Thus, by reason of these peculiarities, 
and contrasted with its surroundings, this work produced a 
deep and melancholy impression on the beholder, and filled 
the soul with that indefinable pity which seizes one at times 
when, on quitting a salon brilliant with light and well-being, 
one suddenly emerges into an obscure street and is 
accosted by a poor ragged creature who complains of cold 
and hunger. This picture says much with few strokes, and 
makes us think and feel still more. 


is a name of repute. Nevertheless, 1 mention him with less 
pleasure than the preceding artist, who is as yet little known 
in the artistic world. Art-lovers who have, probably, seen 
better earlier work by Schnetz, assign him a distinguished 
position, therefore I cannot refuse him his reserved seat. 

He paints well, but in my opinion he is not a great 
painter. His large Salon picture of this year, representing 
the Italian country-folk imploring the Madonna for miracu- 

54 HEINE. 

lous healing, is excellent in parts : a young boy in convulsions 
is especially well drawn, indeed the whole reveals the artist 
to be a master of technique. Yet the picture as a whole is 
pieced together rather than painted ; the figures are posed 
in a declamatory manner; the underlying conception, the 
original, uniting idea, is lacking. Schnetz makes use of too 
many strokes to say what he wishes, and what he says is in 
great part superfluous. Strenuous efforts, an obviously 
adequate aim, may be praiseworthy in a mediocre artist, 
but can never produce pleasurable emotion. It is the 
security with which genius soars, that has power most to please 
us : we rejoice in his high flight, we are convinced of the 
power of his wing, and our soul allows itself confidently to 
be borne away with him into the regions of the radiant light 
of art. Quite contrary feelings are roused by these the- 
atrical geniuses who allow us to see the strings which guide 
them so distinctly, that we watch them with trembling dis- 
comfort, apprehensive lest at any moment they may fall. 
I do not say that the threads upon which Schnetz depends 
are too thin, nor that his genius is too heavy; I can only 
assert that instead of inspiring me, he depresses my spirit 
to the level of the earth. 

In the nature of his studies and choice of his sub- 
jects Schnetz has certain analogies with a painter whose 
name, on that account, is often mentioned with his, but who 
in this year's exhibition has surpassed not only Schnetz, 
but also the majority of his confreres, in public favour, 
and has had the officer's cross of the Legion of Honour 
bestowed upon him. 


is the name of this painter. " Is he an historical painter, 
or a genre painter?" I hear the German Masters of the 
Guild ask. Alas! I cannot evade this question; I feel 

THE SALON, 1831. 55 

constrained to explain these qualifications, so as once for 
all to prevent grave misunderstandings. This separation 
between history and genre is so bewildering that one is 
tempted to think it was invented by the artists who worked 
at the tower of Babel. Yet it is of more recent date. In 
the first periods of art there was only historical painting r 
namely, the depiction of sacred history. Later,. all pictures 
were definitely named historical paintings whose subjects 
were drawn not only from the Bible and from legends, but 
also from ancient and profane history, including heathen 
mythology. They were in direct opposition to those 
representations of ordinary life which came into vogue 
especially in the Netherlands, where the Protestant spirit 
rejected both Catholic and heathen mythology subjects for 
which they had perhaps neither models nor taste yet where 
there existed so many gifted painters who sought expression, 
and so many lovers of art who desired to buy pictures. 
The diverse manifestations of this ordinary life were col- 
lectively termed genre. 

Many painters have represented the humour of the small 
burgher-life in a remarkable manner; but, unfortunately, 
technical perfection was with them always the chief aim^ 
All these pictures have, at all events, an historical interest 
for us; for when we examine the pretty productions of 
Mien's, Netscher, Jan Steen, Gerard Dow, Van der WerfF, 
and many others, the whole spirit of that age is wonderfully 
revealed to us: we look, so to speak, through the window at 
the sixteenth century with all its occupations and costumes. 
In this respect the Dutch and Flemish artists were singu- 
larly fortunate. The peasants' garments were not lacking 
in picturesqueness; and those of the burghers were, for the- 
men, a delightful blending of Netherlandish well-to-do ease 
and of Spanish grandezza; for the women, a brilliant 

56 HEINE. 

mixture of the fantasies of the whole world. For example, 
Mynheer, with the burgher cloak and knightly cap of brilliant 
hue, has a clay pipe in his mouth. Mifrow wears heavy 
trailing robes of Venetian shimmering satin, Brussels lace, 
African ostrich feathers, Russian furs, Oriental slippers, and 
may hold an Andalusian mandoline, or, still more frequently, 
carry in her arms a silken brown Hondchen (little dog) 
of the Saardam race. The negro page-boy, the carpets 
from Turkey, parrots of all colours, exotic flowers, the great 
gold and silver vases with extravagant arabesque designs, ail 
these threw over this Dutch-cheese existence the glamour of 
an Oriental fairy-tale. 

When, after its long sleep, art reawoke in our days, 
artists were none the less embarrassed in the choice of 
a subject. Sympathy with religious and mythological 
painting was completely dead in most European countries, 
even in Catholic states; while contemporary costumes seemed 
too unpaintable to permit the cheerful representation of the 
history of the time or of daily life. Our modern frock-coat, 
too, is -so essentially prosaic, that it seems impossible to 
introduce it into a picture without an appearance of a 

T Not long since I argued over this matter with a 
philosopher from Berlin a town in Prussia who en- 
deavoured to explain to me the mysterious signification 
of the frock-coat, and the natural-historical poetry of its 
shape. He related to me the following myth: The first 
man was not wholly clothless, but was created sewed up in 
a night-shirt. When woman was formed out of his rib a great 
piece was cut out of his night-shirt and had to serve her as 
an apron; thus the night-shirt by means of this rent 
became a frock-coat, that found its natural supplement in 

1 The following paragraph was printed in the original edition. 

THE SALON, 1831. 57 

the woman's apron. In spite of this picturesque origin 
of the frock-coat, and of its poetical significance to a 
supplement of the race, I cannot reconcile myself to its 
shape. Artists who share this aversion with me have sought 
elsewhere for more picturesque costumes. This, no doubt, 
has contributed chiefly to their predilection for more ancient 
historical subjects, and we find in Germany a whole school, 
certainly not lacking in talent, ceaselessly occupied in rummag- 
ing through the \vardrobeofCatholic and feudal middle ages, 
in order to clothe the men of to-day, with all their modern 
feelings, beneath the monkish cowl or knightly armour. 
Other artists have sought other expedients; they have 
chosen to represent peasant-folk whose originality and 
national costume have not yet been submerged in the 
waves of civilisation. Hence the scenes from the Tyrolese 
mountains which we so often see in the pictures of the 
Munich painters. This region lies at their door, and the 
costume of these mountaineers is more picturesque than 
that of our dandies. Hence, also, those joyous pictures of 
that common Italian life which allures so many artists by 
reason of their sojourn in Rome, where they find that ideal 
nature, those human forms full of ancient nobility, those 
picturesque costumes that are so dear to the painter's heart. 
Robert, French by birth, an engraver in his youth, lived 
for a number of years in Rome. The pictures he exhibits in 
this year's Salon belong to the category to which I have just 
referred to the representation of the life of the people in 
Italy. "Then he is a painter of genre" I h'ear the Masters 
of the Guild exclaim; and I know one lady-historical- 
painter who promptly turns up her nose disdainfully. But I 
cannot accept this classification, because historical painters, 
in the old sense of the word, no longer exist. It would be 
indeed too vague to claim this name for all paintings 

58 HEINE. 

which express a profound thought; there would result a 
quarrel over each canvas to decide whether or not it 
contained a thought; and at the end of the dispute nothing 
would be gained but one word. Possibly, if it were used in 
its natural signification, that is to say, for the representation 
of the history of the world, this word, historical-painting, 
would be specially applicable to a class of work which is 
now actually being largely produced, of which Delaroche 
may be considered the foremost exponent. 

Before concerning myself particularly with the latter, I wish 
to say a few words about the paintings of Robert. They 
are, as I have said, exclusively representations of Italy, 
paintings which depict for us in the most delightful manner 
the charm of that favoured land. Art, for long the ornament 
of Italy, becomes now the cicerone of her past magnificence. 
The speaking colours of the painter reveal to us her most 
secret beauties ; an old magic revives, and the land which 
once subjugated us first by its arms, then by its literature, 
subjugates us to-day by its beauty. Yes, Italy will always 
reign over us, and painters like Robert chain us afresh to 

The Pifferari, by Robert, which is, unless I am mistaken, 
already widely known by means of lithography, was ex- 
hibited this year, and represents those pipers of the Alban 
mountains who come to Rome at Christmas to play a holy 
serenade before the images of the Mother of God. This 
work is better drawn than painted ; there is a certain stiff- 
ness about it ; it is gloomy, Bolognese in character, and 
like a coloured engraving. Nevertheless, it appeals to the 
feelings, as though one listened to the naive pious music 
piped by the shepherds of the Alban hills. 

Less simple, but perhaps of deeper significance, is another 
picture by Robert : that of a dead body lying uncovered on 

THE SALON, 1831. 59 

its bier, in accordance with the Italian custom, and being 
carried to its grave by the Misericordia Brothers. The 
members of the confraternity, shrouded in black, and wearing 
a black mask with two holes out of which the eyes look in a 
mysterious manner, advance like a procession of ghosts. On 
a seat in the foreground, facing the spectator, sit the father, 
mother, and young brother of the deceased. Poorly clad, 
sunk in grief, with bound head and folded hands, the old 
man sits in the middle between his wife and boy. He is 
silent ; for there is no deeper pain in this world than that 
of a father who, contrary to the laws of nature, survives his 
son. The mother, deadly pale, seems to lament in very 
desperation. The child, a poor little clodhopper, has 
a piece of bread in his hand which he wants to eat, but 
he cannot swallow a mouthful on account of his grief, 
and is therefore all the more pitiful. The deceased appears 
to have been the eldest son, the support and pride of the 
family, the Corinthian pillar of the house. Still in the 
gracefulness of youth, contented and almost smiling, he lies 
on the bier ; so that, in the picture, life seems harsh, hate- 
ful, mournful; while death appears unspeakably beautiful, 
even smiling and full of contentment. 

The artist, who has glorified the charm of Death, has 
nevertheless known how to represent life with still greater 
magnificence. His large masterpiece, Les Moissonneurs, is, 
so to speak, the apotheosis of life. Looking at it, one forgets 
that there is a kingdom of shadows; it seems as though no- 
where could there be greater happiness and light than on this 
earth. " The earth is heaven, and men are holy, deified:" 
is the great revelation which is declared by the happy colours 
that light this picture. A vast plain of Romagna, illumined 
by the dying fires of the setting sun of Italy, lies stretched 
before us. In the middle distance is a peasant's wain drawn 

60 HEINE. 

by means of heavy chains by two great buffaloes, and laden 
with a family of country folk about to make a halt. To 
the right, near their sheaves, sit some reapers resting after 
their work, while a bagpipe-player pipes and a lusty youth 
in the joy of his heart dances to the sounds. One seems 
to hear the melody and the words : 

"Damigella, tutta bella 
Versa, versa il bel vino ! " 

To the left come maidens, young and pretty, carrying the 
field-fruits, burdened with sheaves of corn. Also from the 
same side come two youths, one of whom advances with 
languorous movements and half-closed eyes, while the other, 
on the contrary, makes signs of joy in the air with his sickle. 
Between the buffaloes of the waggon stands a robust brown- 
breasted boy, who seems to be the servant, and rests against 
the pole. On the top of the waggon, to the one side, the 
old grandfather is stretched on cushions, an affable old man 
whose spirit probably still directs the wheels of the family. 
On the other side the son, a strong and resolute male figure, 
sits with crossed legs on the back of one of the buffaloes, 
and holds in his hands the whip, the visible sign of com- 
mand. Higher, almost upright, stands his pretty young 
wife with a child in her arms, a rose with its bud. Beside 
her is seen the head of a young man, probably the brother, 
as amiable and blooming, who endeavours to spread the 
linen over the tent-pole. This picture i, I hear, being 
engraved ; perhaps the prints will reach Germany next 
month, so I will not prolong the description. But neither 
engraving nor description can give an adequate idea of the 
charm of the picture, for the charm lies in the colour. The 
figures, all darker than the background, are so exquisitely 
lighted by the reflections of the heavens, that they glow 

THE SALON, 1831. fit 

with the most brilliant and joyous tones, while the contours 
are nevertheless definitely outlined. Some of the heads 
seem to be portraits. But the painter has not copied 
nature after the stupidly scrupulous manner of many of 
his fellows, and so rendered the features with a diplomatic 
minuteness. As a clever friend remarked, Robert has 
selected for himself the figures which nature has offered to 
him. And, in the same manner that souls do not lose their 
individuality in the fires of purgatory, but only the soilures 
of earth, before their translation to heavenly joys ; so these 
figures have been purified in the burning flames of genius, 
to enter, radiant, into the heaven of art ; where eternal life 
and eternal beauty reign ; where Venus and Mary never lose 
their adorers; where Romeo and Juliet never die; where 
Helen remains for ever young; where Hecuba at anyrate 
never grows any older. 

A study of Robert's system of coloration shows him to 
be a student of Raphael. The architectonic beauties and 
the grouping also recall this master. Certain isolated figures, 
moreover, have a family resemblance to Raphael's figures, 
but to those of his first period, during which he still repro- 
duced Perugino's severe types very faithfully, but softened 
them somewhat and gave them more grace. 

It is not my intention to establish a parallel between 
Robert and the greatest painter of the Catholic epoch. It 
is, however, impossible to deny their relationship. It is 
a resemblance in material form alone, and not a spiritual 
relationship. Raphael is imbued with Catholic Christianity, 
a religion which expresses the strife of spirit against 
matter, of heaven against earth ; whose object is the sub- 
jection of matter; that calls every protest of the latter a 
sin ; whose aim is to spiritualise earth, or still more, to offer 
it in sacrifice to heaven. But Robert belongs to a nation 

62 HEINE. 

wherein Catholicism is extinct. For, to remark in passing, 
the current expression that Catholicism is the religion of the 
majority of the people, is only a piece of French gallantry 
towards Notre Dame de Paris, who, on her side, with equal 
politeness, wears the tricolour of Freedom on her head : a 
double hypocrisy against which the rabble protested in a 
somewhat informal manner when, recently, it demolished the 
churches and gave swimming lessons in the Seine to the 
holy pictures of the saints. Robert is French ; and he, 
like most of his countrymen, gives unconscious allegiance 
to a still veiled doctrine, which knows nothing of a com- 
bat between spirit and matter, which does not forbid man 
the sure enjoyments of things terrestrial while at the same 
time promising him celestial joys in Infinity; which pre- 
fers, in a word, to assure blessedness to man on earth, and 
takes the sensuous world to be as holy as the spiritual ; for, 
" Whatever is, is God." These " Harvesters " of Robert are 
not only guileless of all sin, but they do not know even what 
sin is. Their daily work is their devotion ; they pray con- 
tinually without moving their lips ; they are happy without 
heaven, redeemed without sacrifice, pure without continual 
ablution, saints by nature. Moreover, in Catholic paintings, 
the aureole radiates from the head alone, as the seat of the 
spirit, thereby symbolising spiritualisation. In Robert's 
pictures, on the contrary, we see matter equally beatified, 
for the whole man, body and head, is encompassed by a 
heavenly light as with a glory. 

Catholicism is not only extinct in modern France, it has 
not even the reactionary influence on art that it has in our 
Protestant Germany, where Catholicism has gained a new 
value through the transmitted poetry of the ages. With the 
French, it is perhaps a dull rancour which disgusts them 
with Catholic traditions, when every other historical repre- 

THE SALON, 1831. 63 

sentation awakes in them a keen interest. I can explain 
this statement by an example which in its turn will be 
elucidated by the statement. The number of pictures 
representing religious history, whether from the Old or the 
New Testament, whether traditional or legendary, is so small, 
that a similar subdivision of a wholly worldly order has 
furnished more examples, and certainly of better quality. 
After an exact calculation I find, among the three thousand 
numbers of the catalogue, that only twenty-nine of these 
deal with religious subjects, whereas the pictures represent- 
ing scenes from Sir Walter Scott's novels alone, number 
over thirty. I can, therefore, in speaking of a French 
painting, use the words, historical painting, and historical 
school, in their most natural signification without the fear 
of any misunderstanding. 


is the Corypheus of these schools. This painter has no 
predilection for the past in itself; solely for its represen- 
tation, for the reproduction of its spirit, for the writing of 
its history in colour. The present taste of the greater 
number of the French painters is akin ; the Salon is filled 
with scenes drawn from history. The names of Deveria, 
Steuben, and Johannot, merit the most distinguished 
mention. In the sister-arts, also, a similar vogue prevails; 
as, for instance, in poetry, so brilliantly exemplified by 
Victor Hugo. The latest efforts of the French in the 
Science of History, and their great results in the actual 
writing of History, are in this respect no isolated pheno- 

Delaroche, the great historical painter, has contributed 
four canvases to this year's Salon. Two are from French 
and two from English history. The two first are of small 

r> 4 HEINE. 

dimensions, what are called easel pictures; vivid, neverthe- 
less, in figures and striking detail. One represents the 
dying Cardinal Richelieu ascending the Rhone, from 
Tarascon to Lyons, in a barque : while in a boat fastened 
behind it Cinq Mars and De Thou, who are being con- 
ducted to Lyons by the Cardinal in order that they may be 
beheaded. In this respect the actual composition may be 
artistically reprehensible, but in this instance the artist has 
triumphed. The coloration is brilliant, almost dazzling; 
and the figures seem to swim in the streaming gold of an 
evening sun. This contrasts all the more strikingly with 
the fate awaiting the three chief figures. Bright though the 
decorations of these boats be, they float, nevertheless, 
towards the sombre kingdom of death. The glittering 
golden rays of the sun are only a parting greeting. It is 
dayset; that, too, must wane ere long. Then a blood-red 
stream of light will spread over the earth, and thereafter 
comes the night. Not less brilliant, and in a sense not 
less tragic, is the historical pendent, which also represents 
the last moments of a Cardinal Minister Mazarin. He is 
stretched upon a superb state-bed, surrounded by gay 
courtiers and retainers, who gossip and play cards with 
one another, and move about the room ; personages in 
garments of divers hues; superfluous beings, especially 
superfluous to a man lying on his death-bed. Charming 
costumes of the time of La Fronde, not as yet flamboyant 
with rosettes of gold, embroideries, ribbons, and lace of 
the luxurious days of Louis XIV., when the remaining 
knights were changed into courtiers, in the same manner 
as the great battle-sword slowly degenerated to the absurd 
rapier of the gallant. Here the costumes are still simple; 
the doublet and lace collar still recall the original warlike 
occupation of nobles; the plumes in the hats even are still 

THE SALON, 1831. 65 

boldly upright and do not bend with every breath of court- 
wind. The men's hair still falls in natural curls over their 
shoulders, and the ladies wear the becoming frisure a la 
Sevignb. True, the garments of these dames already indicate 
a transition to the tastelessness, to the long trains and wide- 
spreading skirts, of the following period. But the bodices 
retain a naive grace, and white charms emerge there- 
from like flowers from a horn of plenty. In this composi- 
tion are seen only pretty women, only pretty court masks; 
the smile of love on their lips, and perhaps a gnawing bitter- 
ness in their hearts ; lips innocent as flowers, and behind 
them a wicked little tongue, cunning as a serpent. Three 
of these ladies, gossiping and talking scandal, are seated 
to the left of the sick-bed: near them is a keen-eared 
priest with piercing eyes and sensitive nose. On the right 
sit three cavaliers and a lady playing cards, at lansguenet 
perhaps, an excellent game that I have myself played at 
Gottingen, and at which I once won six thalers. A noble 
courtier, clad in a dark violet velvet mantle with a red 
cross, stands in the middle of the room and bows low with 
elaborate scrape of the leg. At the right corner of the 
picture is a group of two court ladies and an Abbe". He 
gives to the one a paper to read, perhaps a sonnet of his 
own making, while he ogles the other, who flutters her 
fan, love's dainty telegraph. Both ladies are charmingly 
beautiful the one fair as a rose at early morning, the other 
pale as a languishing star at twilight. In the background 
is the retinue of chattering courtiers, probably relating to 
one another important backstairs State secrets, or wagering 
that Mazarin will be dead in an hour. And indeed the sick 
man seems neai his end; his face has the pallor of a corpse, 
his eyes are sunken, his nose is pinched in a significant 
manner. Within him, that flame which we call life is at its 


66 HEINE. 

ebb; cold and darkness are closing in around him; the 
wing of the Angel of Night already overshadows his fore- 
head. At this moment the lady playing by his side turns to 
him, shows him her cards, and seems to ask him if she shall 
trump with her heart. 

The subjects of other two pictures by Delaroche are 
from the history of England. The figures are life-size, 
and are painted with greater simplicity. One canvas re- 
presents the two princes in the Tower whom Richard III. 
caused to be assassinated. The young king and his younger 
brother are seated on an old-fashioned bed; the little dog 
runs to the door of the prison, and seems by his barking to 
announce the approach of the murderers. The king, a 
boy on the verge of adolescence, is a pathetic figure. The 
idea of an imprisoned king, as Sterne so rightly felt, is of 
itself a sufficiently pitiable thought; yet here the prisoned 
king is hardly more than a guileless boy delivered into the 
hands of a relentless murderer. In spite of his tender 
years, he seems to have suffered much; his pale sickly 
face has a touch of tragic grandeur; his blue-stockinged 
legs hang nervelessly, and give his body the broken aspect 
of a weakly flower. All this, as I have said, is treated 
with great simplicity, and the impression is all the more 

Ah ! it appealed to me poignantly, for I discovered in the 
face of the luckless prince the beloved eyes of a friend, eyes 
which have often smiled at me, and were closely related to 
other eyes still more beloved. Memory recalled to me each 
time I stood before Delaroche's picture, how in a lordly 
castle in far-off Poland I stood once before the picture 
of a friend, and spoke of him with his lovely sister, whose 
eyes closely resembled the eyes of my friend. We spoke 
also of the painter of the picture, who had recently died, 

THE SALON, 1831. 67 

and of how men die one after the other. Alas ! the beloved 
friend himself is dead, shot at Prague; the bright lights 
of the charming sister are also quenched, her castle burnt 
to the ground. It fills me with dismay when I reflect 
that not only does our life vanish so quickly out of the 
world, but that no trace remains of the scenes in which 
we lived, as though nothing of this life of ours had ever 
existed, as though it were all a dream. 

The other picture by Delaroche, however, roused still 
more painful feelings. It represents a scene from that 
horrible tragedy, which has been translated into French, 
has cost so many tears on both sides of the Channel, and 
has also profoundly affected the German spectator. We 
see on the canvas the two heroes of the drama: the first, 
a corpse in its coffin ; the second, full of life, raising the 
lid in order to contemplate his dead enemy. Perchance 
they are not two heroes, but merely two actors to whom the 
director of the world has assigned their respective roles, 
and who, perhaps without knowing it, have represented the 
tragic struggle of two principles ? I will not name these 
two inimical principles, these two great thoughts, that, may- 
hap, were warring in the breast of God at the moment of 
creation, that we see in presence of one another in this 
picture the one, shamefully wounded and bleeding, in the 
person of Charles Stuart ; the other, arrogant and victorious, 
in the person of Oliver Cromwell. 

In one of the sombre rooms of Whitehall the coffin of 
the beheaded king rests athwart dark red velvet seats; 
before it stands a man who, with quiet hand, lifts the cover, 
in order to contemplate the corpse. This man stands 
alone; his figure is thick-set and broad, his bearing is 
careless, his face is that of an honest boor. His soldierly 
costume is puritanically devoid of ornament: a long vest of 

68 HEINE. 

brown velvet under a yellow leathern jacket; high riding- 
boots that almost wholly conceal his black hose; across his 
breast a sash of dirty yellow, whence hangs a sword in its 
sheath; on his cropped dark hair a black hat turned up 
with a red feather; round his neck a little turned-down white 
collar, under which a bit of his armour is visible; dirty 
yellow leather gloves; the left hand holds a short stout 
stick, the other raises the lid of the coffin in which the 
king lies. 

Faces of dead men have often an expression of distinction, 
before which that of the living man seems insignificant in 
comparison, for they excel in passionless reserve, in the 
imperturbable coldness of distinction. All men feel this, 
and out of respect to the superior rank of the dead, the 
watchman presents arms when a corpse is carried past, be 
it merely that of the poorest cobbler. It is, therefore, easily 
understood that the juxtaposition of Oliver Cromwell to the 
dead king renders all comparison unfavourable to the latter. 
Glorified by his recent martyrdom, sanctified by the majesty 
of misfortune, his neck encircled with precious purple, with 
the kiss of Melpomene on his white lips, the dead man 
presents a startling contrast to the puritanical, coarse, robust 
figure. The contrast is equally striking and significant 
between the outer garments of this man and the last tokens 
of splendour of fallen majesty: the rich silken green cushion 
in the coffin, and the elegance of the spotlessly white linen 
shirt trimmed with lace from Brabant. 

What great world-pain the artist has herein expressed 
with a few strokes of his brush ! There, miserably bleeding, 
lies that splendour of royalty, once the consolation and 
flower of mankind. Life in England since that day has 
grown mournful and colourless: poetry has fled affrighted 
from that land which erstwhile she had decked with 

THE SALON, 1831. 69 

laughing colours. Ah ! how deeply did I feel this when 
once, at midnight, I passed before that fatal window at 
Whitehall; when the damp, cold commonplace of the Eng- 
land of to-day froze me through and through. Why was my 
soul not equally deeply affected when lately, for the first 
time, I passed over the terrible spot where Louis XVI. was 
done to death ? I opine it was because he, when he died, 
was no longer a king, and because he had already lost his 
head. King Charles lost his crown only when he lost his 
head. He believed in this crown and in his absolute right; 
for these he fought like a lissom and daring knight. He 
died nobly proud, protesting against the illegality of his 
sentence, a true martyr to Royalty-by-the-grace-of-God. The 
poor Bourbon did not deserve this glory; his head, before 
his death, had been uncrowned and profaned by a Jacobin 
cap. He had no faith in himself; he believed in the 
competence of his judges; he protested only of his in- 
nocence. He was an honest, rather portly paterfamilias; 
his virtues were genuinely bourgeois. His death has a 
sentimental rather than a tragic character; it suggests to 
one August Lafontaine's family romances. ... A tear for 
Louis Capet, a laurel wreath for Charles Stuart. 

" Un plagiat infame d'un crime Stranger ! " Such are the 
words wherewith Viscomte Chateaubriand describes that 
melancholy occurrence, which took place on the Place 
de la Concorde, one 2ist of January. He makes the 
proposal that on this spot a fountain should be erected 
whose water should spring from a cup of black marble, for 
the cleansing "you know well what I mean," he added 
with pathetic innuendo. The death of Louis XVI. is the 
becraped stalking-horse that the noble count constantly 
parades abroad. Yearly and daily he exploits the ascen- 
sion of the son of Saint Louis; yet the refinement of the 

70 HEINE. 

spleen with which he declaims, and his far-fetched funeral-wit, 
testifies to no deeply-seated grief. Most objectionable of 
all is it when his words are re-echoed from the heart of the 
Faubourg St. Germain, when the old emigrant-coterie still 
lament with hypocritical sighs over the late Louis XVI., as 
though they were his own belongings, as though he had ever 
belonged to them, as though they were specially entitled to 
bewail his death. Yet this very death is a common world- 
wide misfortune that concerns the humble day-labourer 
equally with the highest master of ceremonies at the 
Tuileries; a death that fills every human heart with com- 
passion. Oh, the wily set ! Since they can no longer 
usurp our legitimate joys, they usurp our legitimate sorrows ! 
It is perhaps fitting, that while, on the one side, we 
indicate the right of the common people to participate in 
such griefs, so that they no longer allow themselves to be 
persuaded that kings do not belong to them, but only to an 
Mite who claim the exclusive privilege of bewailing every 
mischance which befalls royalty as though it were their 
own; we ought, on the other side, to give full voice to 
those griefs, since, in these days, certain coldly calculating 
state-grabbers have arisen temperate bacchantes of Reason 
who, in their logical madness, seek to argue out of the 
depths of our heart all the reverence which the old time 
Sacrament of Kinghood evokes. Meanwhile we can in 
nowise call the mournful origin of this grief a plagiarism, 
still less a crime, least of all an infamy; we call it a dis- 
pensation of providence. It would exalt men too high, and 
at the same time abase them too deeply, to attribute to 
them such gigantic power, and at the same time so much 
wantonness, that they of their own free will should have 
shed the blood whose traces Chateaubriand would fain 
cleanse away with the water from his black marble cup. 

THE SALON, 1831. 71 

Of a truth, when the circumstances of that time arc duly 
considered, and the testimony of living witnesses is gathered 
together, it is very obvious how small a part man's free 
will played in the death of Louis XVI. Many a one 
who intended to vote against the death, acted contrariwise 
when he ascended the Tribunal and was swayed by the 
over-shadowing frenzy of political despair. The Girondins 
felt that they pronounced simultaneously their own death- 
sentence. Many a speech that was then delivered served 
only to confuse the speaker. The Abbe* Sieyes, disgusted 
with this repulsive jabbering, v.oted simply for death; when 
he stepped down from the Tribune, he said to his friend, 
"JFai vote la mort sans phrase." Calumny, however, mis- 
quoted this private utterance ; and the terrible sentence, 
" la mort sans phrase" was imposed as a parliamentary 
utterance upon the mildest of men. Thus it is stated in all 
school-books, and school children have to learn it by heart. 
As I have everywhere been assured, mourning and dismay 
reigned in the whole of Paris on that 2ist of January; and 
even the most rabid Jacobin seemed oppressed with painful 
misgivings. My customary cab-driver, an old sans-culotte, 
related to me that when he saw the king die he felt exactly 
"as if one of his own limbs had been sawn off." "It gave 
me a pain in my stomach," he added, "and all day long 
I had a distaste for food." He also said " the old Ve"to " 
seemed very perturbed, as though he wished to utter his 
defence. This much is certain, he did not die as artistically 
as did Charles I., who first of all quietly pronounced his 
long speech of protestation, and preserved his presence of 
mind to such a degree that once or twice he requested 
the surrounding nobles not to finger the axe in case of 
blunting its edge. The mysterious, masked executioner of 
Whitehall presented a more gruesomely poetic aspect than 

72 HEINE, 

Samson with his bare face. Here Court and headsman 
had allowed the last mask to fall from their faces, and it 
was a prosaic spectacle indeed. Perchance Louis might 
have pronounced a long Christ-like speech of forgiveness, 
were it not that at his first words the roll of the drums 
was so deafening that his protestations of innocence were 
scarcely heard. The exalted heavenward words that 
Chateaubriand and his companions constantly paraphrase: 
" fils de Saint Louis, monte au del!" these words were 
never spoken on the scaffold; they do not coincide with 
the sober work-a-day character of the good Edgeworth, in 
whose mouth they were put. They are the invention of 
a journalist of that date, Charles Hiss by name, who 
caused them to be printed on the same day. Such 
information is wholly useless. Nevertheless, these words 
are in every compendium; they have long since been 
learned by heart, and the poor school children have now 
also to learn by heart that these words were never uttered. 

It cannot be denied that in exhibiting this picture, 
Delaroche seems to have had the intention to challenge 
historical parallels. If one begins with a parallel between 
Louis XVI. and Charles I., one naturally proceeds to draw 
another between Cromwell and Napoleon. I venture 
to say, however, that injustice is done to these when 
they are compared with one another. Napoleon remains 
guiltless of bloodshed ; for the execution of the Duke 
d'Enghien was merely an assassination. Cromwell, however, 
never sank so low as to allow himself to be consecrated 
Emperor by a priest, nor, recreant son of revolution, to 
attain to kinship with Caesar by means of love intrigues. 
In the life of the one there is the stain of blood ; in the life 
of the other there is the stain of oil. Both, however, felt 
a secret shame. Bonaparte, who could have been Europe's 

THE SALON, 1831. 73 

Washington, but who became her Napoleon only, did not 
prosper in his imperial purple mantle. Liberty pursued him 
like the ghost of a slain mother, he heard her voice every- 
where, even in the night. She tore him, terror-stricken, 
from the arms of legitimacy, who had come to share his 
couch ; he was seen to wander rapidly through the spacious 
rooms of the Tuileries, storming and reviling. In the morn- 
ing, tired and pale, he appeared at the State Council; and he 
complained of ideology, always of ideology, that pernicious 
ideology, and Corvisart shook his head. 

If, too, Cromwell could not sleep quietly, but walked 
restlessly through Whitehall all night, it was not, as many 
devout Cavaliers believed, because he was haunted by the 
spectre of a bleeding king, but by the fear of flesh-and- 
blood avengers of his guilt. Therefore he always wore 
armour under his doublet ; he became more and more dis- 
trustful, and after the appearance of the pamphlet " To put 
to death is no murder," Oliver Cromwell was never seen to 
smile again. 

But, if a comparison between the Protector and the 
Emperor offer few resemblances, on the other hand the 
parallel drawn between the faults of the Stuarts and those 
of the Bourbons, between the periods of Restoration in both 
countries, is richer in result. The history of calamities 
almost repeats itself. Here to-day, as formerly in England, 
we have the quasi-legitimacy of a new dynasty. Once 
again sacred arms are being forged at the anvil of 
Jesuitism ; the Church, beyond whose pale there is no sal- 
vation, sighs and intrigues as of yore in favour of the 
miraculous Child. The one thing now needful is that the 
French pretender should, as did formerly his English 
prototype, return straightway to his fatherland. Well, let 
him come ! I prophesy for him the reverse of the fate of 

74 HEINE. 

Saul, who sought for his father's ass and found a crown; 
the youthful Henry will come to France to seek a crown, 
and will find only his father's asses. 

Those who studied this picture of Cromwell were especi- 
ally interested in the endeavour to divine the thoughts of the 
man by the bier of the dead Charles. History has two 
versions of this episode. According to one version, 
Cromwell had the coffin opened at night, by torch-light, and 
remained long in contemplation, with motionless body, and 
distorted features, like a dumb statue. According to the 
other tradition, he opened the coffin in daylight, quietly con- 
sidered the dead body, and said, "He was a strongly 
built man, and might have lived long." In my opinion, 
Delaroche had this democratic legend in his mind. Crom- 
well's face expresses neither astonishment nor stupefaction, 
nor agitation of any kind; on the contrary, the spectator is 
struck by the grim, horrible calm of this man. There 
he stands, a strong, self-reliant figure, "brutal as a fact," 
powerful without pathos, demoniacally natural, wonder- 
fully commonplace, execrated yet honoured ; and there he 
contemplates his work, like a wood-cutter who has just 
felled his oak. He has quietly cut down the great oak 
which till then had spread its branches so proudly over 
England and Scotland ; the royal oak under whose shade so 
many fine generations of men had flourished, where under 
the Sprites of Poesie had oftentimes circled in their sweetest 
dances. Quietly he has felled it with his fatal axe, and there 
it lies prostrate with all its beautiful foliage, and with its 
crown inviolate. . . . Ah, fatal axe ! 

" Do you think, sir, that the guillotine is a great improve- 
ment?" These were the croaking words with which an 
Englishman, who stood behind me, broke in upon the 
reflections which, as I have just described, affected me pain- 

THE SALON, 1831. 75 

fully when I contemplated the wounded neck of Charles 
Stuart in the picture by Delaroche. And indeed it is 
painted with too crude realistic a hue. Moreover, the 
cover of the coffin is incorrectly drawn, and gives the 
latter the appearance of a violin case. Otherwise, the 
picture is painted with masterly excellence, with the fineness 
of Vandyck, with Rembrandtesque boldness in the shadows. 
It reminds me forcibly of the republican warrior in Rem- 
brandt's great historical picture of the " Nightwatch " in the 
Trippenhuis in Amsterdam. 

In character, Delaroche's talent, and that of the greater 
number of his confreres, resembles most closely that of the 
Flemish school ; with this difference, however, that French 
grace handles a subject with more dexterous lightness, and 
a canvas is rendered charming with French elegance. Hence 
I might designate Delaroche an elegant Netherlander. 

I shall perhaps report elsewhere the conversations I 
have so often heard in front of " Cromwell." No place 
offers a more favourable opportunity for the study of the 
popular feelings and opinions of the day. The picture was 
placed in the large hall, at the entrance of a long gallery. 
Beside it hung Robert's equally fine masterpiece, as though 
for comfort and consolation. Indeed, when the vision of that 
burly, soldierly figure of the Puritan that terrible reaper 
with the dissevered kingly head in strong relief against 
the dark background, thrills the spectator and stirs in him 
all his political passions, the soul feels the calming influence 
of those more pacific reapers, who, in heaven's serenest 
light, return with their finest sheaves of corn to the 
harvest feast of peace and love. If, before one of these 
pictures, we realise that the great struggle of the modern 
era is not yet ended, that the earth still trembles be- 
neath our feet; if we still hear the raging of the storm that 

76 HEINE. 

threatens to tear the earth from its foundation ; if, indeed, 
we perceive the yawning abyss that greedily engulfs torrents 
of blood, so that the fear of total destruction seizes us: in 
the other picture we see how steadfast and serene the 
earth remains, with what love she brings forth her golden 
fruits, even after she has been trampled under foot in the 
great universal tragedy of Rome, with all its gladiators and 
Emperors, and vices and elephants. It is a history without 
beginning and without end, that repeats itself ceaselessly, 
that is as simple as the sea, as the heavens, as the seasons ; 
a sacred history that poets chant, and whose archives are 
to be found in the heart of every man: the history of 
humanity ! 

Of a truth this vicinage of Robert's picture to that of 
Delaroche was salutary and wholesome. How often, 
after I have gazed at Cromwell, and so identified myself 
with him, that I could almost hear his thoughts, hard 
monosyllables grumbled and hissed in that deplorable 
English pronunciation which resembles the distant grum- 
bling of the sea, and the shrill cries of the storm-birds how 
often have I felt myself attracted by the quiet magic of the 
neighbouring canvas, and my soul was quieted and rejoiced 
when I seemed to hear the sweet speech of Tuscany sound- 
ing from Roman lips. 

Ah ! it is indeed needful that the beloved, indestructible, 
melodious history of humanity should comfort our souls in 
the discordant clash of the world's history. At this moment 
I hear out beyond me that harsh sound, threatening, deafen- 
ing as of yore, that maddening din. Drums are beating, 
weapons are clashing; a frenzied, ever-welling crowd of 
men with wild cries and oaths surge through the narrow 
streets of Pans and howl, "Warsaw is fallen! Our 
vanguard has fallen ! Down with the Ministers ! War to 

THE SALON, 1831. 77 

the Russians ! Death to the Prussians ! " I find it very 
difficult to remain quietly at my writing-desk, and bring 
my peaceable art-news from Paris to a conclusion. Yet, 
if I go out into the street, and if I be recognised as a 
Prussian, assuredly my skull will be battered in by one or 
other of these July-heroes, and all my ideas upon art will be 
squashed; or a bayonet will be run through my left side, 
where already my heart bleeds of itself. Indeed, I should 
run a chance of being locked up in the Watch-house as 
a foreign breaker of the peace. 

At such a clamour thoughts and pictures become con- 
fused and indistinct. Delacroix's goddess of Freedom 
appears to me with a wholly altered face, almost with anxiety 
in her wild eyes. Vernet's picture of the Pope is miracu- 
lously altered ; Christ's weak old Vicegerent seems young 
and healthy, and rises smilingly from his chair, and the 
mouths of his strong bearers seem as though opening for 
a lusty Te Deum Laudamus. The young English Prince 
sinks to the ground, and, dying, looks at me with the well- 
known glance of my friend, with that intensity that is 
peculiar to the Poles. The dead Charles, too, wears quite 
another face and alters suddenly : when I look closely, 
there lies no king in the black coffin, but murdered Poland, 
and no Cromwell stands before it, but the Tzar of Russia, 
a noble, fine figure, as imposing as when once I saw him in 
Berlin, when he stood on a balcony near to the King of 
Prussia, whose hand he kissed. Three thousand Berliners, 
who rejoiced in the spectacle, shouted Hurrah ! and I 
thought in my heart, " God be merciful to us ! " For I 
knew the Sarmatian proverb, " You must kiss the hand that 
you wish not to sever." 

Ah ! I wish that here also the King of Prussia had allowed 
his left hand to be kissed, and with his right hand had 

78 HEINE. 

seized the sword, and anticipated the dangerous enemy 
of the fatherland, as duty and reason demanded. Had this 
Hohenzollern assembled the Vogtwurde of the kingdom in 
the north, they would certainly have registered their votes 
against encroaching Russia. The Russians are a brave 
people, and I love and honour them ; but since the 
fall of Warsaw the last rampart which divided us from 
them they have drawn so close to our hearts that I feel 

I fear me, that the next time the Tzar of Russia visits 
us that it will be our turn to kiss his hand God be merciful 
to us ! 

God be merciful to us ! Our last rampart has fallen ; 
the goddess of Freedom grows pale; our friend has fallen 
to the ground, the Romish high-priest lifts himself up, 
smiling malevolently; and victorious aristocracy stands 
triumphant over the bier of the proletariat. 

I hear that Delaroche is at present at work on a pendent 
to his Cromwell, a Napoleon at Saint Helena, and that he 
has chosen the moment when Sir Hudson Lowe, the Tory 
executioner, lifts the shroud which covers the corpse of the 
great representative of Democracy. 

Returning to my subject, there remain several important 
painters to eulogise; for example, the two sea-painters, 
Gudin and Isabey; also one or two excellent depictors of 
ordinary life, the spiritual Destouches and the humorous 
Pigal. But, in spite of the best intentions, it is impossible 
for me quietly to enumerate their peaceable merits 
one after another, for the clamour in the streets is really 
too loud; it is impossible to order one's thoughts when such 
storms re-echo in the soul. It is difficult enough, in Paris, 
on so-called quiet days to turn from the attraction of the 
life in the streets, to indulge in private dreams. Though 

THE SALON, 1831. 79 

art blossoms in Paris better than elsewhere, nevertheless, we 
are every moment disturbed in the enjoyment of it by the 
hoarse clangours of life; the sweetest tones of Pasta and 
of Malibran are rendered displeasing to us by the cry of 
need, of bitter poverty; the heart, intoxicated by Robert's 
colour-poems, is quickly sobered by a sight of the public 
misery. It would need the egotism of a Goethe to attain 
to an undisturbed enjoyment of art, and I feel strongly 
at this moment how more than usually difficult art 
criticism is thereby rendered. Yesterday I was totally 
unable to proceed with these notes after I had walked 
through the Boulevards, where I saw a man, pale as death, 
fall to the ground with hunger and misery. But when a 
whole people falls upon the Boulevard of Europe then it 
is impossible to write quietly when the critic's eyes are 
dimmed with tears; his judgment is then no longer of any 

Artists, with reason, complain of this time of dissension, 
of universal turmoil. It is said that painting pre-eminently 
requires the peaceful olive branch. Hearts which listen 
anxiously whether or not the war-trumpets sound, have 
certainly not the necessary attention to give to sweet music. 
The opera is listened to with deaf 1 ears ; the ballet is 
watched with but partial attention. " It is the fault of that 
accursed July revolution," sigh the artists, and they forswear 
liberty and tiresome politics, which absorb everything and 
everyone to their detriment. I hear but I cannot believe 
it that nothing further is spoken of the theatre in Berlin ; 
that according to yesterday's Morning Chronicle the Reform 
Bill has passed through the Lower House, and Doctor 
Raupach, who is at present in Baden-Baden, bewails the 
times, because his art-talents have thereby gone to the 

80 HEINE. 

I am certainly a great admirer of Doctor Raupach ; 
I went to the theatre whenever " Schiilerschwanke," or 
"Sieben Madchen in Uniform," or "Das Fest der Hand- 
werker," or any other of his pieces were given : but I can- 
not deny that the fall of Poland causes me far more concern 
than I should feel did Doctor Raupach with his art-talent 
disappear. O Warsaw ! Warsaw ! not for the whole world 
would I have had thee fall ! 

The old prophecy which I made concerning the end of 
the present art period that it began at Goethe's cradle and 
would end at his grave seems to be nearing its fulfilment. 
The art of to-day must wane because its life-principle is 
rooted in a decrepit old regime of the holy Roman kingdom 
of the past. Wherefore, like all decaying survivals of that 
past, it remains most unregeneratively antipathetic to the 
present It is this antipathy, and not the troublous times, 
that is so harmful to art. On the contrary, troublous times 
are salutary to it. As of yore in Athens and Florence, so 
now, art unfolds her most beautiful blossoms in the midst of 
the wildest war and party storms. Of a truth, those Athen- 
ian and Florentine artists lived no egotistical, isolated, art- 
absorbed lives, with leisurely poet's heart closed to the great 
sorrows and joys of their time. Their work, on the con- 
trary, was but the dream-mirror of their time ; they them- 
selves were manly men whose personalities were as powerful 
as their artistic talents. In Phidias and Michael Angelo, 
the man and the artist formed one whole being, even as their 
statues were carved from one whole block of marble. 
Just as these statues were in harmony with their Grecian and 
Catholic temples, so those artists were in complete accord 
with their surroundings. They did not isolate their art from 
the politics of the day; their work was not the result of paltry 
personal afflatus. ^Eschylus sang of the Persians with the 

THE SALON, 1831. 81 

same earnestness with which he fought against them at 
Marathon; Dante wrote his comedies not as a commissioned 
poet-in-ordinary, but as a banned Guelf; and in his exile 
he sang, not of the eclipse of his talent, but of the down- 
fall of Freedom. 

Surely these new days will give birth to new art-powers 
that will be in inspired harmony therewith; that will not 
need to borrow symbols from the faded Past, but will evolve 
a technique wholly different from what has gone before- 
Until then, with sound and colour, self-intoxicated sub- 
jectivity, individuality, and divinely free personality must 
use to the uttermost the joy of life which is far more 
profitable than the dead phantom of an old art. 

Or, do art and the world draw to a sorrowful close ? Is 
that spirituality, which now leavens all European literature, 
a sign of approaching extinction, to that hour of death 
when men become clear-sighted and with pale lips give 
utterance to transcendental secrets? Or will grey old 
Europe become young again? Perchance this twilight- 
spirituality of her writers and artists is not the wonderful 
second sight of the dying, but a welcome premonition of 
a re-birth, the harbinger breath of a new spring. 

This year's exhibition has quieted that unholy fear of 
death, and gives promise of better things. The Archbishop 
of Paris hopes for salvation in the cholera, in death; I 
await it in freedom, in life. Therein do our faiths differ. 
I believe that France, out of the sentient depths of her 
new life, will breathe forth a new art. And this heavy 
task is demanded of the French people, of the French, the 
light-hearted, fickle people, whom we so often liken to a 

But the butterfly is also the symbol of immortality of the 
soul and of its eternal rejuvenescence. 


THE SALON, 1833. 

WHEN I arrived in Paris in the summer of 1831, nothing 
caused me greater surprise than the exhibition of pictures 
then open ; and although the more important political and 
religious revolutions solicited my attention, I could not 
refrain from writing first of all upon the great revolution 
which had there taken place in the domain of art, of which 
that Salon must be considered a representative outcome. 

Together with most of my own countrymen, I had held 
unfavourable prejudices concerning French art; that is, 
against French painting, whose latest developments had 
remained quite unknown to me. Painting in France has 
been influenced by special conditions ; it has followed the 
social movement, and has been rejuvenated with the people 
themselves. This statement, however, does not apply to the 
sister arts of music and poetry, whose transformation had 
commenced prior to the Revolution. M. Louis de Maynard 
contributed a series of articles to L'Europe Littiraire 
upon the Salon; they are certainly among the most 
interesting notes ever written upon art by a Frenchman. 
He has expressed himself upon the point in question in the 
following words, which I have reproduced faithfully, though 
without his grace and charm of expression: 

"The painting of the eighteenth century commences in 

THE SALON, 183.3. 83 

the same manner as the contemporary politics and litera- 
ture ; in like manner it attains to a certain accomplished 
development, and its decline dates from the day of the 
universal downfall in France. A strange period, in truth, 
that commences with a burst of laughter at the death of 
Louis XIV., and finishes in the arms of the executioner, 
' Monsieur le bourreau,' as Madame de Barry called him ! 
Oh ! this century that has denied everything, railed at every- 
thing, profaned everything, that has believed in nothing; 
for that very reason it was all the more capable of its great 
work of destruction, and it destroyed, without being able 
the least in the world to reconstruct anything, or for that 
matter without having any such desire. 

" However, if the arts followed the same movement, they 
nevertheless followed with unequal strides. Thus, painting 
in the eighteenth century lagged behind. It produced its 
Crebillons, but it had neither a Voltaire nor a Diderot. 
Constantly in the pay and under the patronage of the great, 
constantly under the petticoats of the reigning mistresses, 
little by little, I know not how, it lost its daring and its 

" Throughout all its libertinage it never shows that tran- 
sport, that enthusiasm which carries us away, dazzles us, 
and compensates us for its bad taste. Moreover, its cold 
affectations, its faded artifice affect us painfully where, in 
the centre of a boudoir, a dainty little lady stretched on a 
sofa, plays lightly with her fan. Favart, with his Egles and 
his Zulmas, is truer to nature than Watteau and Boucher 
with their coquettish shepherdesses and their idyllic abbes. 

"Favart, though he made himself ridiculous, worked 
nevertheless in good faith. The painters of that time were 
less affected than any one else by the ferment that was 
permeating France. The outbreak of the Revolution 

84 HEINE. 

caught them in their studio coats. Philosophy, politics, 
science, literature, each represented by one man in par- 
ticular, precipitated themselves impetuously, like a band 
of drunken men, in an assault of whose aim they were 
ignorant; but the nearer they approached the realisation 
of it, the calmer became their fever, the more peaceable 
their features, the more assured their strides. 

" They had confused presentiments of the aim, which 
heretofore they were unable to define ; for they had read 
in the book of God that all human joys end in tears. 
Alas ! they had emerged from too noisy, too disorderly a 
banquet not to anticipate what would be more serious, more 
terrible. When one reflects upon the qualms with which 
they were at times tormented in the midst of the gentle 
intoxication of that eighteenth century orgy, one might 
almost believe that the scaffold, which was to put an end to 
all that joyfulness, had beckoned to them from afar with its 
sombre, spectral hand. 

"Painting, which till then had held itself aloof from the 
more serious of the social movements, either because it 
was debilitated by wine and women, or because it regarded 
co-operation as useless, dallied until the last moment 
among its roses, its perfumes of musk, its shepherd- 
esses' frolics. Vien and a few others realised that it must 
be snatched therefrom at any price, but they did not 
know what next to do with it. Lesueur, held high in the 
esteem of the master of David, was unable to found a new 
school : he was forced to relinquish the effort. Himself 
arrived in a time when all intellectual royalty had fallen, 
together with the power of a Marat or a Robespierre, David 
was in the same dilemma as these artists. Nevertheless we 
know that he went to Rome, and that he returned as con- 
firmed a Vanlooist as he went. 

THE SALON, 1833. 85 

"It was later only, when Greek and Roman antiquity 
was preached, when publicists and philosophers recom- 
mended a return to the ancient forms, whether social, 
political, or literary, it was then only that his nature 
unfolded itself in all its innate hardihood, that with puis- 
sant hand he dragged art out of the frivolous and per- 
fumed sheepfolds into which it had fallen, to raise it to 
the rarefied regions of antique heroism. The reaction was 
as pitiless as are all reactions, and David pushed it to an 
extreme: with him terrorism commenced in painting." 

David's work and procedure are well enough known in 
Germany. Our French guests under the Empire have 
frequently discoursed to us concerning David. 

We have also frequently heard of his pupils, who con- 
tinued the master's work, each in his own way; of Gerard, 
Gros, Girodet, and Guerin. We know, however, less about 
another man whose name also begins with a G, who, if he 
be not the founder, is at least the initiator of a new school 
of painting in France. I refer to GeVicault. 

I have alluded elsewhere to this new school. When I 
described the best canvases in the Salon of 1831 I then 
summed up the characteristics of these new masters. 

That Salon, in the judgment of all, was the most extra- 
ordinary that France has ever seen, and it remains memor- 
able in the annals of Art. In particular, the pictures which 
I considered worthy of description will live for centuries to 
come, and my writing is perhaps a useful contribution to 
the history of painting. 

I have been able this summer to convince myself of 
the immense importance of the Salon of 1831, when the 
galleries of the Louvre, which had been closed during two 
months, reopened on the first of April and proffered to us 
the most recent products of French art. As is customary, 

86 HEINE. 

the old pictures, which mainly constitute the national gallery, 
were concealed by folding screens on which the new pictures 
were hung; so that at times, behind the Gothic insipidities 
of a neo-romantic painter, the graceful mythological old 
Italian masterpieces could be seen. The whole exhibition 
resembled a codex paltmpsestus, wherewith one is all the 
more annoyed at the superimposed barbarous text because 
of the divine Greek poetry it conceals. 

Nearly four thousand pictures, and among them scarcely 
one masterpiece to be found ! Was this the result of too 
great a fatigue after too great an excitement ? 

Does Art also manifest that lamentable malaise which 
we observed in the political life of the French nation after 
the mad delirium of liberty had subsided ? Was this year's 
exhibition only a garish yawn, a multicoloured echo of the 
Chamber? If the Salon of 1831 was irradiated with the 
July sun, it was the mournful rain of June which dropped 
in the Salon of 1833. 

The two feted heroes of 1831, Delaroche and Robert, 
did not enter the lists ; the other painters whom 
I praised previously have this year produced nothing 
of excellence. With the exception of a picture by Tony 
Johannot, a German, not a single canvas interested me 
strongly. Scheffer has produced another Marguerite, 
which witnesses to great technical progress, yet is not an 
important work. It is the same idea, painted with more 
warmth, thought out more apathetically. Horace Vernet 
sent another big picture, beautiful merely in its details. 
Decamps apparently wished to make fun of the Salon 
and of himself, for he has sent paintings chiefly of 
monkeys, among them one very excellent ape painting 
an historical picture. Its long drooping Teuto-Christ-like 
hair reminded one joyously of friends across the Rhine. 

THE SALON, 1833. 87 

It is M. Ingres of whom most is spoken this year, both 
in praise and blame. He has painted two portraits, one of a 
young Italian, the other of an elderly Frenchman, M. Berlin, 
senior. As Louis Philippe in the domain of politics, 
so Ingres was this year king in the realm of art; as the 
first reigns in the Tuileries, so the other reigns in the 
Louvre. The character of M. Ingres also is commonplace; 
he is in fact juste milieu between Mieris and Michael 
Angelo. In his pictures the lusty heroism of Mieris is 
joined to the fine coloration of Michael Angelo. 

The notable sculpture at the present exhibition is the 
gainer by the lessening enthusiasm excited by the painting. 
There is work here which gives warrant for the highest 
expectations. One bears comparison even with the art of 
the masters: the Cain of M. Etex. It is a group of sym- 
metrical, even monumental beauty, antediluvian in character 
yet with a wholly modern signification. Cain, with his wife 
and his children, is represented in acceptation of his fate, 
absorbed, without thought, petrified in disconsolate repose. 
This man has killed his brother in consequence of a dispute 
concerning a thanks-offering, because of a religious quarrel. 
Yes, religion bred the first fratricide, and since then it has 
borne on its forehead the sign of blood. 

I shall return later to Etex's Cain, when I have alluded 
further to the extraordinary advance which in our day we re- 
mark in sculpture, more even than in painting. The Spartecus 
and Theseus, at present exhibited in the gardens of the 
Tuileries, excite my thoughtful admiration every time I 
see them. Only, when it rains, I regret that such master- 
pieces of modern art should be so wholly exposed in the 
open air. The heavens are not so clement here as in 
Greece, where, as a matter of fact, works of the highest 
order were better protected from wind and rain than is 

88 HEINE. 

usually supposed. The best were well sheltered, usually 
in temples. Thus far, the weather has done little hurt to 
the new statues of the Tuileries, and the effect is very 
beautiful when they are seen in relief against the fresh 
green foliage of the chestnuts. It is very amusing some- 
times to hear the nurses explain to the little children who 
play there, what is the meaning of that naked man in 
marble who holds his sword in his hand with so angry 
a mien; or what sort of strange creature that is who has 
the head of an ox on his human body, and is being slain 
by the club of another naked man. The ox-man, they say, 
has devoured many little children. Young republicans who 
pass by the statue are pleased to observe that Spartacus 
throws a sullen look towards the windows of the Tuileries, 
and they see the monarchy in the form of the Minotaur. 
Other people find something to say anent the manner in 
which Theseus wields his club, and pretend that were he 
to deal his blow he would infallibly smash his own hand. 
Be that as it may, thus far the general effect is excellent. 
After the lapse of a few winters, however, these fine statues 
will have become weather-worn and crumbly, moss will 
grow on the sword of Spartacus, peaceful families of in- 
sects will nest between the ox head of the Minotaur and 
Theseus's club, if the latter's hand and the club itself have 
not been broken. 

Since so many useless soldiers have to be fed here, the 
king ought to station a sentinel in the Tuileries at each 
side of the statue, to hold an open umbrella over it 
when it rains. Then, in the true sense of the word, 
art would be protected under the umbrella of the citizen- 

Artists complain on all sides of the excessive parsimony 
of the king. It is said that, as Duke of Orleans, he took an 

THE SALON, 1833. 89 

active interest in the arts. It is murmured that orders 
and payments are alike unsatisfactory. Nevertheless, with 
the exception of the King of Bavaria, he is the chief art 
connoisseur among the princes. To-day his mind is too 
wholly absorbed by politics for active concern with the 
arts as formerly. If, however, his taste for painting and 
sculpture has cooled somewhat, that for architecture has 
become a veritable passion with him. Never has there 
been so much building in Paris as now under the king's 
auspices. Everywhere new edifices and whole new streets 
are being built. Hammering goes on continuously at 
the Louvre and at the Tuileries. The plan for the New 
Library is as grandiose as can be imagined. The Church of 
the Madeleine, the old Temple of Glory, approaches com- 
pletion. Further work also, on that grand palace of the 
Ambassadors which Napoleon wished to construct on 
the right bank of the Seine, is once more in progress. 
At present only half of the building is finished, so that it 
looks like the ruins of a gigantic fort. Wonderful colossal 
monuments are being erected in the public places. In the 
Place de la Bastille the great elephant is being put up, which, 
not inaptly, represents the conscious force and powerful 
reason of the people. In the Place de la Concorde there 
stands a wooden effigy of the obelisk at Luxor. In a few 
months hence the Egyptian original will replace it, and 
serve to commemorate the horrible events previously 
enacted here on the 2ist January. Though that hieroglyph- 
bedizened messenger may bring thousands of experiences 
with him from the wonderland of Egypt, the modern lantern- 
post, which has stood for fifty years in the middle of La Place 
de la Concorde, has seen things incomparably more remark- 
able ; and the old, red, primaeval stone-giant will pale and 
tremble with fright when, on a quiet winter's night, that 

90 HEINE. 

frivolous lantern-post begins to chatter and recount the 
history of the place whereon they stand. 

The craze for building is the king's master-passion, and 
may become the cause of his downfall. I fear that, in spite 
of all promises, he thinks constantly of the "detached forts"; 
for this project of his would necessitate the use of favourite 
tools, the trowel and hammer, and his heart beats with 
joy when he thinks of a hammer. These hammer-strokes 
may some day make him deaf to the voice of reason ; 
insensibly he may become the dupe of his favourite fan- 
tasies, if he consider these forts to be his only means of 
salvation and their construction a matter easy of execu- 

Thus, a craze for architecture may be the means of drag- 
ging us into great political agitations. In connection with 
these forts and the king himself, I may be permitted to quote 
here a fragment written by me last July: 

"The whole secret of revolutionary parties consists in 
this, that they do not wish to attack the government, but 
rather to await some violent attack from their opponents, 
so that they may make an active resistance. A new insur- 
rection in Paris, therefore, cannot break out except at the 
express desire of the government, which must first furnish 
the occasion by some significant act of folly. If the in- 
surrection succeed, France will at once declare a Republic, 
and Revolution will waltz over the whole of Europe, whose 
old institutions, if not trampled to pieces, will at least be 
terribly shaken. If the insurrection fail, a terrible, unheard- 
of reaction will set in here, which will be aped with the 
usual ineptitude by neighbouring countries, and may bring 
about many changes in the existing condition of things. 
In any case, the peace of Europe is endangered by whatever 
unwonted action the French government may attempt 

THE SALON, 1833. 91 

against the interests of the Revolution, by whatever it may 
undertake that is hostile to the revolutionary parties. Now, 
as the will of the present government is no other than the ex- 
clusive will of the king, the breast of Louis Philippe is in 
reality Pandora's box; it encloses all the evils that may one 
day pour themselves over the whole earth. Alas ! it is im- 
possible to read in his face the thought of his heart; for this 
younger branch seems to be as much the master of dis- 
simulation as the elder. No actor on this earth holds 
his face so much under control, no one knows how to play 
his role in so masterly a way, as our citizen-king. He is 
perhaps one of the most intellectual and courageous men in 
France. Nevertheless, when it became a question of gaining 
the crown, he knew how to give himself the appearance of 
a harmless, timid bourgeois; the people who placed him 
on the throne without much ceremony certainly believe 
that they can remove him at will with even less ceremony. 
This time royalty has played the feeble-spirited part of 
Brutus. Therefore it is at themselves and not at Louis 
Philippe that the French ought to laugh when they see those 
caricatures which represent him with his white felt hat and 
his big umbrella. Both are highly correct, and, like the 
hand-shakings, belong to his role. History will one day 
testify that he acted his part well; this thought may perhaps 
console him for the caricatures and satires which make him 
the object of their wit. The number of these caricatures 
and skits becomes daily greater, and everywhere great 
pears are to be seen drawn on the walls of the houses. 1 No 
prince has ever been so scoffed at in his own capital as Louis 
Philippe. But he reflects, 'Who laughs last laughs best; 
it is not you who will eat the pear, the pear will eat you.' 

1 This is an allusion to the singular physiognomy and pointed style 
of wearing the hair, characteristic of Louis Philippe. 

92 HEINE. 

Assuredly he feels all these insults which are levelled at 
him, for he is a man. Neither is he of so gentle and lamb- 
like a nature that he cannot revenge himself; he is a man, 
and a strong man who can control his ill-temper at the 
moment and knows how to command his anger. When 
the hour strikes that he judges to be propitious, then he will 
strike first against his immediate enemies, then against 
those who are beyond this pale, but have offended him 
still more gravely. This man is capable of anything; who 
knows if he will not one day throw down, as gage of combat, 
the glove which has become so dirty with all those indis- 
criminate hand-shakings. He is not lacking in princely self- 
esteem. He, whom I had seen with felt hat and umbrella 
shortly after the July Revolution, had suddenly changed 
when I saw him on the 6th of June last year, after he had 
vanquished the republicans ! He was no longer the good- 
natured, pot-bellied bourgeois, with smiling fleshy face: even 
his corpulence gave him an air of dignity, and he held his 
head as boldly in the air as any of his forefathers had ever 
done. His weighty presence was majestic, he was every 
pound a king ! When, however, he perceived that the crown 
did not sit quite firmly on his head, that stormy weather 
might overtake him, he resumed the old felt hat and once 
more took his umbrella in his hand ! In how bourgeois 
a manner at the Grand Review a few days later did he 
salute his fellow-tailors and bootmakers, how he distributed 
to right and left the most cordial hand-shakings, not only 
with his hand, but with his eyes and smiling lips, and even 
whiskers ! Nevertheless, this smiling, saluting, imploring, 
suppliant, honest man carried then in his breast fourteen 
' detached forts.' 

" These forts are just now the object of the most serious 
questions ; the solution of these questions may be terrible, 

THE SALON, 1833. 93 

and even shake the whole world. It is ever the same 
fatality that lures these clever people to their undoing: they 
believe themselves to be cleverer than a whole people, 
whereas experience has shown that the masses judge with 
instinctive correctness, and divine shrewdly, if not the 
whole plans, at least the intentions of their rulers. The 
people are omniscient, all-powerful ; the eye of the people 
is the eye of God. Thus the French people shrugged their 
shoulders with pity when the government, with a paternal 
air, hypocritically announced that it wished to fortify Paris 
in order to be able to protect it against the Holy Alliance. 
Every one feels that Louis Philippe wishes solely to fortify 
himself against Paris. It is true, the king has sufficient 
reason to fear Paris. The crown scorches his head and 
singes his scalp as long as the great flame still smoulders in 
Paris, that hearth of Revolution. But why does he not state 
this openly ? Why does he still pose as the faithful guardian 
of this flame ? It would, perhaps, be more advantageous 
for him were he to explain openly to the grocers and other 
partisans of royalty, that he cannot uphold either himself or 
them, so long as he is not complete master of Paris, that for 
this reason he surrounds the capital with fourteen forts, 
whose cannons from above would impose silence in all the 
risings below. The frank avowal that it concerned his head 
and the heads of all the juste-milieu, would perhaps bring 
about a good result. But now it is not only the opposition 
party, but most of the shop-keepers and the hangers-on of 
t\\ejuste-milieu system, who are exasperated at the 'detached 
forts'; and the press has made the reason of their irrita- 
tion sufficiently plain to them. The majority of the shop- 
keepers opine, in short, that Louis Philippe is a very 
excellent king, worthy that sacrifices should be made for 
him and even certain risks be run, as, for instance, on the 

94 HEINE. 

5th and 6th of June, when, to the number of 640,000 
men, together with 20,000 troops of the line, they risked 
their lives against a few hundreds of Republicans ! But in 
no way do they consider it worth while that, in order to 
retain Louis Philippe, Paris should be exposed to risks ; 
that is to say, that they themselves, their wives, their 
children, and all their shops should be shot at from the 
height of the fourteen new forts during possible subsequent 
outbreaks. Moreover, they say that during fifty years, 
they have been accustomed to every sort of revolution. 
Studious efforts might be made to mediate in the case of 
the lesser outbreaks, so that peace might be speedily re- 
stored. Their policy in the more considerable insurrections 
would be to yield immediately, so that quiet might at once 
be re-established. Even the strangers, they say, the rich 
strangers, who spend so much money in Paris, are con- 
vinced that a revolution has no dangers for a peaceable 
onlooker : that, indeed, there is no reason why it should 
not be accomplished with the greatest order, with great 
politeness; while for a foreigner, it is quite a treat even, to 
be able safely to experience a revolution. However, if 
Paris be surrounded with detached forts, the fear of 
cannon-balls on a fine morning would chase away from 
Paris all foreigners, all provincials, and not only these and 
other strangers, but also many of the inhabitants. Then 
less sugar, pepper, and pomade would be sold, and less 
profits secured ; in short, commerce and industry would be 
ruined. Grocers, who tremble for their house rents, for 
their customers, for themselves and families, are therefore 
hostile to a project which will convert Paris into a fortress, 
in place of the old, bright, careless Paris of earlier days. 
Others, who belong, it is true, to the jnste-milieu, but who 
have not renounced the liberal principles of the Revolution, 

THE SALON, 1833. 95 

and prefer these principles to those of Louis Philippe, these 
men think that the citizen-royalty is better protected by 
institution than by any kind of architecture which too 
vividly recalls old feudal times, when the master of the 
citadel could dominate the town at his good pleasure. So 
far, they say, Louis Philippe has proved himself a faithful 
guardian of the civil liberty, of the equality that has been 
gained through so much bloodshed ; but he is a man, and 
in man there is always a secret desire for absolute sway. 
Possessed of the detached forts, he could satisfy all his 
caprices with impunity; he would be far more untram- 
melled than any of the kings prior to the Revolution ; for 
they could only clap malcontents into the Bastille whereas, 
if Louis Philippe surround the whole town with bastilles, 
he bastillises the whole of Paris. Even if the Parisians were 
perfectly certain of the noble disposition of the present king, 
no one can guarantee the character of his successors, and still 
less of those who by cunning or chance might one day put 
themselves in possession of those detached forts, whence 
they could sway Paris at their own pleasure. But another 
and far weightier apprehension than these objections mani- 
fests itself everywhere, and disturbs even those who hereto- 
fore have sided neither for nor against the Revolutionary 
party. It concerns the highest and most important of the 
interests of the whole people national independence. 
Although French vanity will not willingly reflect upon 1814 
and 1815, every man must admit to himself that a third 
invasion does not lie completely out of the realms of the 
possibility: in which eventuality these detached forts not 
only would be no insurmountable obstacle to the allies if 
they wished to take Paris, but once in possession of the 
enemy, would enable the allies to hold Paris in check to 
all eternity, or even rase it completely to the ground with 

96 HEINE. 

the cannons. In this I merely state the opinion of French- 
men who are convinced that during the first invasion the 
foreign troops placed themselves at a greater distance from 
Paris, because they found no staying point against this 
enormous population ; that now the princes in the depths 
of their hearts desire nothing more ardently than utterly to 
destroy Paris, the hearth of the Revolution." 

Is it really true that this project of detached forts is 
finally abandoned ? That is known only of God, who sees 
into the loins of kings. 

I cannot refrain from remarking that we are perhaps 
blinded by party spirit, and that the king is actuated by 
disinterested views only, and merely wishes to barricade 
himself against the Holy Alliance. But this is improb- 
able. The Holy Alliance has, on the contrary, a thousand 
reasons to fear Louis Philippe, and has also a motive of 
supreme importance for desiring his preservation. For, in 
the first place, Louis Philippe is the most powerful prince 
in Europe; his material power is increased tenfold by its in- 
herent mobility, and ten times a hundred times stronger yet 
are the moral means at his disposal in case of need. If, 
nevertheless, the united princes succeed in bringing about 
the fall of this man, they themselves will have thereby over- 
turned the most powerful, and perhaps the last support of 
royalty in Europe. Yes, the princes ought daily on their 
knees to thank the Creator of crowns and of thrones, that 
Louis Philippe is king of France. Once already they 
have committed the folly of killing the man who alone had 
been able most powerfully to weld the Republicans together, 
Napoleon. Oh ! it is with justice that you call yourselves 
kings by grace of God ! 

It was a special grace of God's that once He has sent a 
man to the kings who could save them at the moment when 

THE SALON, 1833. 97 

Jacobinism had taken its axe in its hand and threatened to 
destroy the old monarchy: let the princes kill this man and 
then God himself cannot help them ! He sent Napoleon 
Buonaparte and Louis Philippe of Orleans: by these 
two miracles He has twice offered salvation to monarchy. 
For God is wise and perceives that the Republican form 
of government is neither convenient nor profitable, nor re- 
vivifying for old Europe. And I, too, share this opinion. 
But perchance we two can do nothing against the blindness 
of princes and of demagogues. Against stupidity we gods 
fight in vain. 

Yes, it is my most sacred conviction that Republicanism 
would be neither convenient, profitable, nor salutary for the 
peoples of Europe, and quite impossible for the Germans. 
When, blindly apeing the French, the German demagogues 
took to preaching a German republic, and attempted in their 
mad fury to defame and abuse not only the kings but 
monarchy itself, that last guarantee of our society, I con- 
sidered it a duty to express myself as I have done in the 
foregoing pages regarding the 2ist January. True, since 
the z8th of June of last year, my royalism has turned a little 
sour : yet, I repeat, I do not feel disposed to omit this 
passage in reprinting these pages. 

I am proud of having once had the courage not to allow 
myself to be lured either by caresses and intrigue, or by 
threats, into foolishness or error. He who goes not as far as 
his heart impels him, and his reason permits, is a coward ; 
he who goes farther than he wished to go is a slave. 

9 8 



" Strange ! Were I the Dey of Tunis 

I would sound the alarm at so dubious an event. " 

KLEIST, The Prince of Hamburg. 


VOUR very welcome letter of the 5th inst. filled me with 
the greatest joy, inasmuch as it expressed so unmistakably 
your good-will towards me. My heart is gladdened to learn 
that so many good and worthy people think of me with 
interest and love. You must not believe that I have so 
soon forgotten our Westphalia ! The September of 1850 is 
still too fresh in my memory. The beautiful valleys around 
Hagen, the friendly Oberweg at Unna, the pleasant days in 
Hamm, the excellent Fritz von B., you, Wundermann, the 
antiquities in Soest, even the heath at Paderborner, all 
stand vividly before my eyes. I still hear the old oak 
forests rustle around me, I hear the whisper of each leaf : 
" Here dwelt the old Saxons, who were the last to lose their 
ancient Germanic faith and customs." I still hear an old 
stone cry to me, "Wanderer, stop, here Arminius defeated 
the legions of Varus!" In order to know thoroughly 
the serious and forcible character of the inhabitants of 


Westphalia, their honesty, their unpretentious solidity, 
the country must be traversed on foot, as, indeed, I did 
in Austrian Landwehr-day-marches. It will really prove a 
great pleasure to me, if, as you write to me, I can gratify 
so many people who are dear to me by sending a few 
communications dated from the capital. Immediately on 
receiving your letter I prepared pens and paper, and now 
here I am at work. 

I have no lack of notes. The only question is, what 
shall I not write about? That is to say, what are the 
things long since known to the public? to what are 
they indifferent? what should they ignore? Yet another 
embarrassment : there is much to be written about, but as 
little as possible upon the theatre and subjects of that kind, 
as these constitute the constant theme of the correspondents 
of the Abendzeitung, the Morgenblalte^ and the Viennese 
Konversationblatte, where, moreover, they are detailed 
systematically. One reader may be interested if I relate 
that Jagor has added to his list of ingenious inventions 
a certain Truffle-ice; another will be delighted to hear 
that Spontini, at the last Ordensfest, wore coat and 
breeches of green satin dotted with golden stars. Require 
nothing systematic from me, for that is the exterminating 
angel of all correspondence. To-day I will speak of public 
balls, of churches; to-morrow of Savigny, and of the 
merry-andrews who traverse the streets in extraordinary 
attire; the following day, of the Gustiniani Gallery, and 
then, mayhap, I will return to Savigny and the merry- 
andrews. Association of ideas shall always prevail. A 
letter will follow every four or six weeks. The two first 
will be of disproportionate length, for I shall therein give 
a sketch of the interior and external life of Berlin. A 
sketch, not a picture. But where shall I begin with this 

too HEINE. 

mass of material ? A French rule comes to my aid : Begin 
at the beginning. 

I will, therefore, begin with the town, and will imagine 
that, once again, I am in search of the General Post Office 
in Konigstrasse, and that I have had my light portmanteau 
taken to the "Black Eagle" in Post Strasse. Already I 
hear you ask, " Why is the post office not in Post Strasse, 
and the ' Black Eagle ' in Konigstrasse ? " Another time I 
will answer these questions; at the present I am going for a 
turn in the town, and pray you to accompany me. Follow 
me only a few steps, and here we are at once at a very 
interesting spot. We are standing on the Long Bridge. 
You murmur to yourself, " It is not so very long ! " Pure 
irony, my dear friend. Let us stand here a moment and 
examine the statue of the great Elector. He sits proudly 
on his horse, while chained slaves surround the pedestal. 
The group is a magnificent bronze, and incontestably the 
finest work of art in Berlin. Moreover, it can be seen 
gratis, for it stands in the middle of the bridge. It has the 
greatest resemblance to the statue of the Elector Johann- 
Wilhelm on the market-place at Dusseldorf, except that 
here in Berlin the tail of the horse is less thick. But I see 
you are being hustled on all sides. 

There is a constant crowd on this bridge. Look round 
about you. What a fine, handsome street ! That is 
the Konigstrasse where all the best shops are, and where 
bright-coloured shining wares of all kinds dazzle the eyes. 
Let us advance; now we have reached the Schlossplatz. 
On the right is the Castle, a big grandiose building. Time 
has coloured it grey, and has given it a sombre, but propor- 
tionally majestic, appearance. On the left are other two 
fine streets, Bruderstrasse and Breitestrasse; straight before 
you, now, is the Stechbahn, a kind of boulevard. And 


here lives Josty ! Ye Gods of Olympus, how I should put 
you out of conceit of your Ambrosia were I to describe 
all the sweets here accumulated ! Oh ! if only you knew 
the contents of these kisses I Oh, Aphrodite, hadst thou 
emerged from such foam thou wouldst have been sweeter 
still ! The premises are narrow and close, it is true, and 
decorated like a tavern. But the good always gains the 
victory over the beautiful; here, packed together like 
herrings, are the grandchildren of the " Bears," comfortably 
seated, while they lap cream and smack their lips with 
enjoyment and lick their ringers. 

" Away, away hence ! 
The eye sees through the open door, 
The heart revels in delight." 

We can go through the castle, and we shall find ourselves 
at once in the pleasure-grounds. " Where is the garden, 
though ? " you ask. Ah, good heavens ! never mind it ; 
irony again ! The garden is a square surrounded with a 
double row of poplars. We stumble here upon a marble 
statue guarded by a solitary sentinel. It is the old Des- 
sauer. 1 He wears the old Prussian uniform, in nowise 
idealised, exactly like the heroes on the Wilhelmsplatz. I 
will point them out to you on the first occasion ; there are 
Keith, Ziethen, Seidlitz, Schwerin, and Winterfeld : the two 
last wear Roman costumes, with long curling wigs. 

Here we are in front of the cathedral church j the 
exterior is shortly to be ornamented by two new turrets 
on both sides of the great tower. This great rounded 
tower is not amiss, but the two young turrets cut ridiculous 
figures. They look like bird-cages. There is a story 

1 The old Prince of Dessau, one of the most celebrated of Prussian 
generals in the eighteenth century. 

102 HEINE. 

told of the great philologist W. Last summer he took 
a walk with the orientalist H., who was passing through 
Berlin. Pointing to the cathedral, he asked, " What is the 
meaning of those bird-cages up there?" To which the 
learned Witzbold replied : " Bullfinches are reared up 
there." l Statues of Luther and of Melancthon are to be 
placed in the two great niches of the cathedral. Shall we 
enter, in order to admire the incomparable figure by Begasse ? 
Moreover, you can edify yourself with the preaching of 
Pastor Theremin. No, let us remain outside, for allusions 
will certainly be made to the sectarian followers of M. 
Paulus. And it does not amuse me. Rather let us watch, 
immediately to the right of the cathedral, that undulating 
mass of people crammed together in a square railed-in enclo- 
sure. That is the Stock Exchange. There the upholders 
of the Old and of the New Testament traffic. We will not 
go too near to them. O God, what faces ! Avarice in every 
muscle ! When they open their mouths, they seem to cry to 
me, " Give me all your money ! " Much must already have 
been staked. The richest must certainly be those on whose 
jaded faces discontent and ill-humour is most deeply graven. 
How much happier are those poor devils who do not know 
if a golden louis is round or square! With good reason 
merchants are here held in small esteem. 

But so much the more thought of are those fine gentlemen 
down there, with the great plumed hats and the red em- 
broidered coats ; for the pleasure-garden is the place where 
daily the watchword is given, and where the parade of the 
guards is mustered. 

I am, in truth, no special friend of military affairs ; never- 
theless, I must confess it is always a pleasing spectacle 

1 The above is an untranslatable pun. The word Dowpfasse, which 
means a bullfinch, also signifies a Canon of the Cathedral. 


to see the Prussian officers grouped together in the 
garden. Fine, vigorous, solid, virile men. Here and 
there, it is true, one may still see a puffed-up, stupidly 
proud aristocratic strut conspicuous in the crowd. Never- 
theless, one finds in the majority of these officers, espe- 
cially among the younger, a modesty and a simplicity of 
manners, the more estimable inasmuch as the military pro- 
fession is the most respected in Berlin. The old caste 
feeling, formerly so rigid, is now, it is true, less exclusive ; in 
great part, no doubt, because every Prussian must serve as 
a common soldier during one year at least, and this without 
exception, from the king's son to the son of the cobbler. 
Doubtless this is very irksome and oppressive, but in many 
respects it is very wholesome. It guarantees our young men 
against the danger of becoming effeminate. In many of the 
States less is heard about the oppression of the military 
service, because in them it is all thrown on the poor agri- 
culturist, whereas the noble, the learned, the rich, and even 
as in Holstein, for example the whole populace of the town 
are exempt from service. How rapidly all such complaints 
with us would die away if our loud grumbling citizens, our 
politically inclined shopmen, our genial auditors, office 
clerks, poets, and street loungers were exempt from service ! 
Do you see that peasant drilling over there ? He shoulders, 
presents arms is silent. 

Forwards, however ! We must cross the bridge. You 
are surprised at the immense amount of building material 
which lies about here, at the numbers of workmen who 
lounge, chat, drink brandy, and do little else. Close 
by here the Dog Bridge once stood. The king had it 
demolished, and now is causing a magnificent iron bridge 
to be erected in its place. The work was begun this 
summer, and will drag on indefinitely: finally a splendid 

104 HEINE, 

work will be achieved. And now, look down there. . . . 
In the distance you can distinguish the Lindens. 1 

I really do not know a more imposing aspect than that 
presented by the Lindens viewed from the Dog Bridge. 
To the right the high, imposing Arsenal, the new Guard- 
house, the University, and the Academy. To the left the 
Royal Palace, the Opera House, the Library, etc.; fine 
buildings crowding upon fine buildings. Over all, there 
are statues for ornament ; unfortunately all badly carved in 
inferior stone, with the exception of those on the Arsenal. 
. . . We now stand on the Schloss Platz, the broadest and 
largest "square" in Berlin. The king's palace is simpler 
and more insignificant than all the other edifices. Our 
king lives here like a simple citizen. Hats off! there he 
is, driving past. No not that beautiful coach with six 
horses; that belongs to an ambassador. There he is, in 
yonder indifferent carriage drawn by two ordinary horses, 
his head covered with an ordinary officer's cap, his body 
enveloped in a grey waterproof. But the eye of the adept 
can see the purple beneath his cloak, and the diadem 
below his cap. " Do you see how affably the king 
returns every one's salute ? " Listen ! " He is a fine man," 
whispers a little fair one. " He is the best of husbands," 
answers sighingly her older friend. "Ma foi," growls out 
the officer of the huzzars, "he is the best rider in our 

How does the University please you ? A truly magnifi- 
cent edifice ! It is a pity that so few of the lecture-rooms 
are spacious. For the most part they are gloomy and 
comfortless; and, what is worse, in many of them the 
windows front the street, and afford, at an oblique 
angle, a view of the Opera House. How the luckless 

1 The famous Berlin alley or promenade, " Unter den Linden." 


students must sit upon hot coals when the leathern wit 
indeed not even morocco leather but pig's leather wit 
of a dry-as-dust professor drones in his ears, while his 
eyes stray towards the street, fascinated by the picturesque 
spectacle of the brilliant equipages, the marching soldiers, 
the nymphs who skip past, and the gay crowd which streams 
towards the Opera House. How the sixteen "coppers" 
must burn in his pocket as the poor fellow thinks to him- 
self, "Happy people! They are going to see Eunike play 
the part of Seraphim, or Milder that of Iphigenia." "Apol- 
lini et Musis " is the inscription on the Opera House, yet 
must the sons of the Muses remain outside. But see, the 
lecture is at an end and a crowd of students saunter to- 
wards the Lindens. "What," do you ask, "do so many 
Philistines attend the lecture ? " Hush, hush, there are 
no Philistines. A tall hat a la Bolivar and a great-coat 
a FAnglaise do not make the Philistine, any more than 
a red cap and a short coat make the student. Here there 
are numbers of sentimental young barber's apprentices, 
aspiring errand-boys, and stuck-up tailors, who affect the 
costume of good society. The well-born student must be 
excused if he wish not to be mistaken for one of these 
gentlemen. There are few Courlanders here, though Poles 
are rather more numerous; some seventy or so, nearly all 
of whom wear the student's costume. These have no 
reason to fear any perplexity as to who they are. A 
moment's glance at their faces shows that no tailor soul 
lurks beneath the short coat. Many of these Sarmatians 
might well serve as models of affability and worthy 
behaviour to their fellow-students, the sons of Hermann 
and Thusnelda. It is true. When one sees so many charm- 
ing qualities in strangers, an immense dose of patriotism is 
requisite to persuade oneself always that the most excel- 

io6 HEINE. 

lent and most precious product of earth is a German ! 
The students do not club much together. The Lands- 
mannschaften 1 are abolished. The association known as 
"Arminia," composed of old adherents of the Burschen- 
schaft, 2 has also been dissolved. Duels have become rare. 
One recent encounter had a tragic ending. Two medical 
students, Leibschiitz and Febus, fell into a quarrel over an 
insignificant point of dispute merely because both laid 
claim to seat No. 4. They were unaware of the fact that 
in this lecture-hall there were two seats marked 4; and, 
as it happened, both had received this number from the 
Professor. " Idiot," cried the one, and this slight exchange 
of words was all that then passed between them. They 
fought the other day, and Leibschiitz transfixed himself on 
the point of his adversary's rapier. He died a quarter of an 
hour later. As he was a Jew, his body was carried to the 
Jewish Cemetery by his comrades at the Academy. Febus, 

also a Jew, took flight, and 

But I see you are not listening to my tale; you are 
admiring the Lindens. Yes, those are the famous Lindens 
of which you have heard so much. It thrills me to think 
that Lessing perhaps stood at this spot, that the favour- 
ite promenade of so many great men who have lived 
in Berlin has been under these trees. Here strolled the 
great Fritz, there he wandered ! But has not the present 
also its glories? It is just mid-day, the promenade hour 
of the gay world. The richly-dressed crowd comes and 
goes under the Lindens. Do you see that beau with the 
twelve-coloured vests ? Do you hear the deeply significant 
remarks he lisps to his lady? Do you smell the costly 
pomades and essences with which he is perfumed ? He 

1 The name of associations of students in German universities. 
s The Student-Union, or the Student Fraternity. 


scans you with his eye-glass, smiles, and curls his hair. But 
look at those fine ladies ! What forms ! I grow poetic ! 

" Yes, friend, here under the Lindens 
Thou canst edify thy heart, 
The most beautiful of women 
Thou wilt here find assembled together. 

They bloom, lovely and adorable, 
In bright-coloured silken garments; 
A poet, musing, named them 
Sweet wandering flowers. 

What beautiful feathered hats ! 

What beautiful Turkish shawls ! 

What beautiful bloom on these cheeks, 

How still more beautiful the swanlike necks 1 " 

No, that lady over there is a wandering Paradise, a 
wandering heaven, a wandering beatitude. And it is 
to that simpleton with moustachios that she throws such 
tender glances. That fellow is not one of those who 
invented powder, but one of those who use it; yes, a 
military man. You wonder why every one stops suddenly 
at this point, puts his hand into his watch-pocket, and 
looks upwards. My dear, we are standing exactly below 
the Academy clock, which goes better than all the watches 
in Berlin, so that each passer-by never fails to regulate 
his by it. It is an amusing sight for any one who does 
not know that a clock is there. 

The Song-Academy is_ also in that building. I cannot 
procure you a ticket; indeed the president himself, Pro- 
fessor Zetter, is said not to be very complaisant when 
such requests are made to him. But observe that little 
brunette, who throws you so many speaking glances. 
And it is round so dainty a thing that you want to hang a 

io8 HEINE. 

particular collar, the mark of the dog. How gracefully she 
shakes her little curled head, and trips with her little feet : 
now, look you, she smiles anew to show her white teeth. 
She must have remarked that you are a stranger. What 
a crowd of decorated men ! What a mass of orders ! when 
one is measured for a coat the tailor asks, " With or with- 
out incisions (for the orders) ? " But halt ! Do you see 
that building at the corner of the Charlottenstrasse ? That 
is the Cafe Royal! Let us turn in there, I beg ; I cannot 
pass without a glance inside. You do not wish to? Be 
it so ; but you must humour me when we return this way. 
Opposite you, at an oblique angle, is the Hotel de Rome, 
and there, to the left, is the Hotel de Petersbourg, the two 
most important hotels here. Near by is Teichmann, the 
confectioner ; his fancy bonbons are the best in Berlin, but 
there is too much butter in his cakes. If you want to dine 
badly for eight groschen, go to the restaurant next to 
Teichmann, on the first floor. Now look both right and 
left. This is the great Friedrichstrasse. Contemplation 
of it gives an idea of infinity. But do not let us stand 
too long ; it is easy to catch cold here. There is a cruel 
draught between the Halle Gate and that of Oranienburg. 
Here to the left, good things crowd together again. On 
the one side dwells Sala Tarone; the Cafe du Commerce 
is on the other ; and, finally, there lives Jagor ! A Sun 
is affixed above the door of this Paradise. Characteristic 
symbol ! What sensations this sun excites in the stomach 
of a gourmand ! Will he not neigh at this sight as did 
the horse of Darius Hystaspes ? 

Kneel down, ye modern Peruvians, here dwells Jagor ! 

Yet, this sun is not without its spots. No matter how 
numerous may be the exquisite delicacies newly set forth 
each day on the printed cards, the service frequently lags. 


Often, too, the roast joints are old and tough; whereas, 
in my opinion, at the Cafe Royal, most of the dishes are 
better prepared and more savoury. But the wine ! Oh, 
why have I not the purse of Fortunatus ! If you wish to 
delight your eyes, I recommend you to look at the pictures 
displayed in the glass cases on Jagor's ground-floor. There 
one sees, side by side, the actress Stich, the theologian 
Neander, and the violinist Boucher. How the Beauty 
smiles! Oh! if you saw her as Juliet when she gives 
the first kiss to the pilgrim Romeo ! Her words are 

"Grace is in all her steps, heaven in her eye, 
In every gesture dignity and love." 


How distraught Neander appears ! Assuredly he thinks of 
the gnostics ; thinks of Basilides, Valentinus, Bardesanes, 
ef Carpocrates and of Marcus. Boucher bears a really 
striking resemblance to the Emperor Napoleon. He calls 
himself the Socrates of violinists, gathers a mad amount 
of money together, and out of gratitude calls Berlin the 
capital of music. 

But let us pass on quickly Here is another confectioner, 
and here also lives Lebeufve, a magnetic name. Look at 
the fine buildings on either side of the Lindens. Here 
resides the great world of Berlin. Let us quicken our 
steps. The large house to the left is Fuch's, the con- 
fectioner. Here everything is decorated in the most 
marvellous manner; everywhere mirrors, flowers, figures 
in marzipan, gilding in short, the extreme of elegance. 
But, let me add, everything obtained here is at once the 
dearest and the worst in Berlin. A few sweetmeats, mostly 
stale, that is all ! On the table two or three old news- 
papers lie, and the tall Fraulein who serves is not even 

no HEINE. 

pretty. We will not go into Fuch's. I eat neither mirrors 
nor silk curtains, and if I wish to regale my eyes I go to 
see Spontini's Cortez or Olympia. 

To the right of you, you will notice something new. 
Boulevards are being constructed in order to make a 
thoroughfare from Wilhelmstrasse to Lindenstrasse. We 
will pause a moment, to notice the Brandeburg Gate 
and the Victory that surmounts it. Erected by Langhans 
after the model of the Propylon at Athens, this gate is formed 
by a colonnade of twelve great Doric columns. As to the 
goddess on the top, she is sufficiently known to you through 
modern history. The good lady has also had her trials ; 
though one cannot detect similar symptoms in this bold 
chariot driver. Let us pass through the gate. What lies 
before you is the renowned Thiergarten^ through which 
runs the broad drive to Charlottenburg. On either side are 
two colossal statues, one of which might stand for an Apollo; 
huge, ignoble, mutilated blocks. They ought to be thrown 
down, for certainly many a pregnant Berlinese has looked 
on them to her detriment. Hence the numerous hideous 
faces that we met under the Lindens. The police ought to 

Let us retrace our steps. My appetite clamours, and I 
would fain turn in at the Cafe Royal. Will you drive ? 
Here close to the gate is a droschke stand ; for by this name 
are our vehicles known in Berlin. The fare is four groschen 
for one, and six for two " fares," and the coachman drives 
wherever he is desired. The carriages are all alike, and the 
drivers all wear grey capes with yellow facings. When one 
is in a hurry, or when it pours with rain, it is impossible to 
find a single droschke. Then, when the weather is fine, 
like to-day, or when one has nothing very particular to do, 
1 The Zoological Gardens. 


one finds a mass of droschkies standing together. Let us 
get in. Quick, driver ! What a moving stream under the 
Lindens ! How many loiterers there, confident of their 
dinner to-day ! Do you thoroughly comprehend that word 
dinner, my friend? Whosoever grasps the full meaning 
of that word knows the secret of all the agitation of human 
life. Quick, driver ! What do you think of the immortality 
of the soul ? Of a truth it is a great discovery, greater than 
that of powder. What is your opinion of Love ? Quick, 
driver ! Is it not true that it is the law of attraction and 
nothing more? Do you like Berlin? Does it not strike 
you that though the town is new, beautiful, and built with 
great regularity, it nevertheless gives a rather frigid impres- 
sion ? Madame de Stael made this very ingenious remark: 
"Berlin, that wholly modern town, however beautiful it 
may be, does not make sufficiently serious impression. It 
bears no imprints of its history, of its country, of the character 
of its inhabitants ; and these magnificent dwellings, newly 
constructed, seem designed merely for the convenient 
gathering together of pleasure and of industry." Herr von 
Pradt has said something still more piquant . , . But you 
do not hear a word on account of the rumbling of the 
carriages. Good, we are at our destination. Stop ! We are 
at the Cafe Royal. That man with the affable face, stand- 
ing at the door, is Beyermann. Now he is what I call 
something like a host ! No cat's-back cringing, but 
thoughtful attention. Polite and urbane in manners, he is 
at the same time indefatigable in service ; in short, the 
finest specimen of the genus, " Mine host." Let us go in. 
A splendid establishment ! Outside, it is the handsomest 
cafe in Berlin ; inside, it is the prettiest restaurant. It is a 
meeting-place of the educated fashionable world. Interest- 
ing men are often to be seen here. Notice over there that 

ii2 HEINE. 

big broad-shouldered man in the black overcoat? He is 
the celebrated Cosme'li, who to-day is in London, to-morrow 
in Ispahan. Thus I picture to myself Chamisso's Peter 
Schlemihl. He has a paradox at the moment, on the tip of 
his tongue. Do you see that other tall man, with the 
haughty air and high forehead ? That is Wolf, who has 
cut Homer to pieces, and can write German hexameters. 
And, at the table over there, that little fidgety man, whose 
face has a constant quivering of the muscles, whose gestures 
are at once comic yet dismal, that is Hoffmann, a councillor 
of the Chamber, who wrote Kater Murr. The individual 
with the upright, solemn figure, who sits opposite to him, is 
Baron von Liittwitz, who furnished to the Voss newspaper 
a truly classical criticism of Kater Murr. 

Do you see that elegant with easy manner who lisps like 
a Courlander, and at this moment has turned towards the 
tall serious-looking man in a green overcoat? He is the 
Baron von Schilling, who in the Minden Sunday newspaper 
so disturbed the "dear little grandsons of Teut." The 
serious one is a poet, Baron von Maltitz. But can you guess 
who is that man with the determined figure, standing near 
the chimney ? That is your antagonist Hartmann from the 
Rhine; hard, and a man of bronze cast in one piece. But 
why trouble myself about all these gentlemen ? I am 
hungry. " Garfon, la carfe ! " Glance over this list of 
splendid dishes. How melodious and melting these names 
sound, " as music on the waters ! " These are magical, 
mysterious formulas, unlocking to us the realm of spirits. 
And . . . champagne ! Permit me to shed a tear of 
emotion. But you, heartless man, you have no desire for 
all these dainties, and ask only for news, for miserable town 
cackle. You shall be satisfied. 

" My dear Herr Goose, what is the news ? " 


He shakes his venerable grey head and shrugs his 
shoulders. We will turn to the little red-cheeked man; 
the fellow's pocket is always stuffed with news, and if once 
he begin to disgorge he goes on and on like a mill-wheel. 
What is the news in the musical world, my dear Herr 
Kammermusikus ? 

" Nothing at all. The new opera by Hellwig, Die Berg- 
knappen^ is one of no great interest. Spontini is at present 
composing an opera, for which Koreff has written the 
text. The subject is said to be taken from Prussian 
history. We shall also soon have KorefFs Aucassin and 
Nicolette, set to music by Schneider, whose score, however, 
is still undergoing revision. After the carnival we are 
promised Bernard Klein's heroic opera, Dido. The 
ladies Bohrer and Boucher have announced their coming 
concerts. When Der Freyschiitz is given, it is always 
difficult to procure seats. The bass singer Fischer is here ; 
he will not appear in public, though he sings a great deal at 
private houses. Graf Briihl is still very ill ; he broke his 
collar-bone. We feared we might lose him ; it would have 
been no easy matter to find another theatrical manager as 
enthusiastic as he in the interests of German art. The 
dancer Antonini was here; he asked a hundred louis a 
night, but it was refused him. Adam Mu'ller came also to 
Berlin, and Houwald, the tragedy-maker. Madame Wolt- 
mann is probably still here ; she is writing her Recollec- 
tions. The bas-reliefs for the statues of Blucher and 
Scharnhorst are still being worked upon in Rauch's studio. 
The operas which are to be given during the Carnival are 
already announced in the papers. Doctor Kuhn's tragedy, 
Die Damascener, will be given again this winter. Wach is 
busy with an altar-piece, which our king intends to present 
to the Church of Victory in Moscow. Madame Stich has 

ri 4 HEINE. 

recovered from her confinement ; she will reappear upon 
the stage to-morrow in Romeo and Juliette. Caroline 
Fouque has brought out a novel in the form of letters, 
wherein she writes the hero's letters, while those of the 
lady are written by Prince Karl von Mecklenburg. The 
State-Chancellor is now convalescent ; Dr. Rust attended 
him. Doctor Bopp, nominated Professor of Oriental 
languages at the University, has given his first lecture in 
Sanscrit to a numerous audience. From time to time 
numbers of the Brockhaus Konversationsblatte are still 
confiscated. Goerre's latest production, In Sachen der 
Rheinlande, etc., etc., is not even mentioned; almost no 
notice has been taken of it. The young lad who killed 
his mother with blows of a hammer is mad. The agita- 
tions of the mystics in the north of Pomerania make great 
sensation. Hoffmann is now about to publish with Will- 
mann, in Frankfiiit, a book said to contain many political 
allusions. Professor Gubitz is still occupied with his 
modern Greek translations, and at present is cutting vign- 
ettes for Feldzug Suwaros gegen die Turken, a work which 
the Emperor Alexander intends to have printed for the 
popular use of the Russians. C. L. Blum has recently 
published with Christian! his Klagelieder der Grischen, 
which contain may passages of poetic beauty. The gather- 
ing of artists at the Academy was a very brilliant affair ; the 
proceeds have been devoted to charity. Walter, the court 
actor from Carlsruhe, has just arrived, and will appear 
in Staberle's Reiseabenteuer. Madame Neumann will return 
here in spring, when Stich will set out on a tour. Julius 
von Voss has written a new piece, Der neue Markt. His 
comedy, Quintin Matsys, will be represented next week. 
Prinz von Hamburg, by Heinrich von Kleist, will not be 
given. The manuscript of his anthology, Die Argonauten, 


which he sent to our manager, has been returned to him. 
"Waiter, a glass of water!" . . . 

Is he not full of news, this Kammermusikus ! We must 
stick to him. He shall supply Westphalia with news, and in 
whatsoever he may be ignorant Westphalia does not require 
to be enlightened. He belongs to no party, to no school, 
is neither a Liberal nor a Romanticist, and, when anything 
spiteful escapes his lips, he is as innocent in intention as the 
luckless reed from which the wind drew out the words, 
" Midas the King has asses' ears ! " 


I HAVE received your esteemed communication of the 2nd 
of February, and I gathered therefrom with pleasure that 
you are satisfied with my first letter. Your lightly indicated 
wish, that definite personalities shall not be sketched in too 
high relief, I shall do my utmost to observe. It is true, I 
might easily be misunderstood. People do not regard the 
picture that I have lightly sketched in, but only the little 
figures which I have drawn in order to make it more life- 
like, and they end perhaps by even thinking that these little 
figures were my chief concern. But it is as possible to 
paint pictures without figures as it is to eat soup without 
salt. One can speak in veiled words, as our journalists do. 
If they allude to a great North-German power, every one 
knows that Prussia is indicated. To me this is ridiculous; 
it is as though the dancers at a masked ball went about 
without their masks. Thus if I speak of a great North- 
German Juris-consul, who wears his black hair in waving 
curls as long as possible over his shoulders, who casts 


pious, sanctimonious glances heavenwards, and endeavours 
thus to resemble the pictures of Christ; who, moreover, 
bears a French name and is of French extraction, yet 
always poses as a German, people know to whom I allude. 
I intend to call every one by his name; in this matter 1 
think with Boileau. I shall depict many personalities; I 
shall concern myself little with the blame of those mannikins 
who regard conventional correspondence as a sort of com- 
fortable arm-chair wherein each one rocks the other with 
this amiable exhortation, "Let us praise one another, but 
let us not say what we look like." 

I have long since known that a town is like a young 
girl, who loves to see her graceful figure reflected in the 
mirror of a stranger's correspondence; but I never should 
have thought that Berlin would thus mirror herself as an 
old woman, would behave like a veritable old gossip. On 
this occasion I have therefore made the following discovery: 
"Berlin is a great place of assemblage for crows !" 

I am out of humour to-day, morose, fretful, irritable. 
Discontent has put the drag upon my imagination, and all 
my wits are draped in black mourning crape. Do not 
suppose that the cause lies in some feminine infidelity. I 
am still in love with women ! When, at Gottingen, I was 
shut away from all intercourse with the fair sex, I procured 
at least a cat to be near me. In any case, feminine 
infidelity obtains no more than a smile from me, so don't 
believe that my vanity has received any painful slight. 
The time is past when each evening I was wont pain- 
fully to twist my hair into curl papers, to carry a mirror 
perpetually in my pocket, and busy myself for twenty-five 
hours of the day in knotting my cravat. Neither think 
that religious scruples have tormented and agitated my 
tender soul; I now believe only in the Pythagorean 


hypothesis, and in the civil code of the kingdom of Prussia. 
No, the reason of my disquietude is a much more sensible 
one. My most precious friend, the most amiable of 

mortals, Eugen von B , left here yesterday ! He was 

the only man in whose society I was never bored; the 
only one whose original witty sayings could fill me with 
cheerful serenity; while in his gracious features I could see 
once more my soul of other days, when I led a pure, sweet, 
flower-life, and had not soiled it with lies and hatred. 

But away with painful thoughts; I must now speak of 
what people here, on the Spree, are singing and saying. All 
their subtle reasonings, their spiteful tongues, their chatter 
and their gossip, you shall hear it all, my dear corre- 

Boucher, who long since has given his very, very-very 
last concert, and now, probably, is charming Warsaw or St. 
Petersburg with his dexterous playing of the violin, speaks 
the truth when he calls Berlin the capital of Music. 
During the whole winter here there has been a singing and 
a ringing enough to deafen and blind one. One concert 
followed close on the other's heels. 

" Who names the Fiddlers, names the name 
Of guests who came together here? 

Even from Spain they came, 

And upon the platform 

Played many an indifferent melody." 

The Spaniard was Escudero, a pupil of Baillot's, an excellent 
violinist, young, healthy, good-looking, yet no protege of 
the ladies. An ominous rumour had preceded him that 
he is in no wise dangerous to the fair sex. I will not weary 
you with the enumeration of all the musical evenings which 
have delighted or bored us this winter. I will say only 

n8 HEINE. 

that at Madame Seidler's concert the hall was filled to 
suffocation, and that at this moment we are looking forward 
to Drouet's concert, at which young Mendelssohn will play 
in public for the first time. 

Have you yet heard Maria von Weber's Freischiifz? 
No ? Luckless man ! But, at least, you have heard 
parts of this opera, the Lied der Brautiungfern, or, to 
express it more shortly, Jungfernkranz ? No ? Happy man 
that you are ! If you go from the Halle Gate to the 
Oranienburg Gate, and from the Brandenburg Gate to 
King's Gate; yes, even if you go from the Unterbaum to 
the Kopnick Gate you hear eternally the same melody 
the song of songs, the Jungfernkranz. As in the elegies of 
Goethe one sees the poor Briton pursued in all lands by 
Marlborough s'en va-t-en guerre, so am I haunted from 
daybreak until late in the night by that song : 

" We bind on thee the virgin-crown 
With silk of violet blue; 
We lead thee then to game and dance, 
To pleasure and to wedding joys. 


Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, green virgin-crown, 
With silk of violet blue, of violet blue. 

Lavender, myrtle, and thyme 
That in my garden grew, 
Why does the bridegroom tarry ? 
I can scarcely wait for him. 

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful," etc. 

In however good a temper I awake in the morning, all 
my cheerfulness evaporates when, with the first hours of 
day, I hear the children humming the Jungfernkranz, as 


they pass under my window. Not an hour passes but the 
daughter of my landlady sets up with her fiingfernkranz. 
I hear my baker hum \.\\t Jungfernkranz as he comes up the 
stairs. The little washer-woman comes " with lavender, 
myrtle, and thyme." And thus it goes all day long. My 
head is in a whirl. I cannot endure it any longer; I rush 
out of the house, throw myself into a droschke. At least I 
shall not hear the song through the sound of the wheels. 
I stop at the house of ... Can I speak to the Fraulein ? 
The servant runs to inquire. " Yes." The door flies open. 
The pretty one sits at the piano and greets me with these 
sweet words : 

" Why does the bridegroom tarry? 
I can scarcely wait for him." . . . 

"You sing like an angel," I cry with convulsed amiability. 
" I will sing it again from the beginning," lisps the good 
girl, and she wreathes again her virgin-crown, again and yet 
again, until I writhe like a worm in indescribable tortures, 
until I cry out in the anguish of my soul, " Help, Samiel!" 

You must know that the wicked villain in Der Freischiilz 
is so named; the hunter Caspar who has given himself to 
.him, calls in any moment of need, "Help, Samiel!" It 
has become the fashion here to give this cry in moments 
of comic embarrassment, and Boucher, who, as I have 
said, calls himself the Socrates of violinists, once called 
aloud, " Help, Samiel ! " when a string of his instrument 
broke under his fingers. 

And Samiel helped. The disturbed lady stopped 
suddenly in her stream of song, and lisped " What is the 
matter with you ? " " It is pure ecstasy," I groaned with a 
forced smile. " You are ill," she lisped, " go to the 
Thiergarten, enjoy the lovely day, and watch the gay 

120 HEINE. 

people." I seized my hat and stick, kissed the gracious 
hand of the gracious lady, cast, from the door, one more 
languishing look of admiration, rushed out, jumped into 
the first droschke that came along, and rolled away to the 
Brandenburg Gate. I got out and ran into the Thier- 

I advise you when any ill assails you that is, in such 
lovely spring days, at this hour, at half-past twelve, to go to 
the Thiergarten. Enter to the left, and turn at once to the 
spot where the lady pensioners have raised a small, simple 
monument to our late Queen Louise. Our king often 
walks on that side. He is a fine man, of a noble, venerable 
aspect, and disdains all show. He wears almost always an 
unpretentious grey mantle. I informed a blockhead that 
the king is often obliged to make shift with this garment 
because his master of the robes lives in the country and 
seldom comes to Berlin. The pretty royal children are 
frequently to be seen in the Thiergarten at this hour, also 
all the Court and the flower of the highest nobility. The 
foreign physiognomies belong to the families of foreign 
ambassadors. One or two liveried flunkeys follow at some 
distance behind the noble dames. Officers, splendidly 
mounted, gallop by. I have seldom seen prettier horses 
than here in Berlin. I feast my eyes on the sight of these 
fine riders. The princes of our house are among the 
number. What a fine, powerful, princely race! On this 
trunk there is not one deformed or stunted branch. Full 
of health and vigour, with an expression of courage and 
high birth on their faces, the two eldest sons of the king 
pass by on horseback. That other fine young figure with 
the pious features, the dear love-lit eyes, is prince Karl, the 
king's third son. But that brilliant, dignified lady who 
passes rapidly by on horseback, accompanied by a gay and 


numerous suite, is our Alexandrine. Dressed in a brown 
close-fitting riding habit, with a round hat and feathers on 
her head and whip in hand, she resembles those beautiful 
chatelaines of knightly days, whose gracious figures we see 
reflected in the magic mirror of the old tales, and of whom 
we cannot decide whether they are saints or amazons. I 
think that the sight of these pure features has made me 
belter; reverent feelings thrill me; I hear the voices of 
angels; I feel the fanning of unseen palm branches, a great 
hymn rises in my soul when suddenly there vibrates the 
jarring strings of a harp, and an old woman's voice quavers 
"We weave for thee the virgin-crown," etc., etc. 

For the remainder of the day I am haunted by that 
accursed song. It embitters my happiest moments. Even 
when I sit down to table it is served as dessert by the 
singer Heinsius. The whole afternoon I am strangled with 
"violet-silk." On the one side the Jungfernkranz is ground 
upon a barrel-organ by a lame man, on the other side it is 
fiddled by a blind man. But it is in the evening that all 
the ghosts are let loose. Everywhere there is a fluting and 
a shrieking, a fiddling and a gurgling, and ever the same 
old melody. Now and again a tipsy student, or ensign, 
breaks in upon the hubbub, by bellowing forth Caspar's 
Song or the Hunter's Chorus; but the Jungfernkranz is 
permanent. As soon as one has ended it, another sings 
it again from the very beginning. It sounds at me from 
every house; every one whistles it with variations; I believe 
that even the dogs bark it in the streets. 

In the evening, like a hunted roebuck, I lay my head 
in the lap of the prettiest of the Prussians. She strokes 
my rough hair caressingly, and lisps in my ear, " I love 
thee, and thy Louise will always be good to thee." And 
she caresses me and fondles me till she thinks I am falling 

122 HEINE. 

asleep, then she gently takes her guitar and plays and sings 
the cavatina from Tancrede, "After so many sufferings," and 
I rest after so many sufferings, and pleasant pictures and 
sounds surround me. Then, suddenly, I am rudely awaked 
from my dreams, for the unlucky creature sings, " We weave 
for thee the virgin-crown ! " 

Mad with despair I tear myself from the clasp of these 
beautiful arms, hurry down the narrow stairs, fly home like 
a whirlwind, and throw myself on my bed, gnashing my 
teeth ! I listen : the old cook is padding about the house 
with her Jungfernkranz, and I bury myself deep beneath 
the coverlets ! 

You understand now,, dear reader, why I said you were 
a fortunate man if you had not heard that song. Yet do 
not think that the melody is in reality a bad one. On the 
contrary, it has reached its popularity through its excellence. 
" But enough's as good as a feast ! " You understand me. 

The whole of Der Freischutz is excellent, and certainly 
deserves the interest with which it has been received all 
over Germany. Here it has already been given at least thirty 
times, and it is always difficult to secure a good seat for 
a performance. It has produced the same furore at Dres- 
den, Hamburg, and Vienna. This suffices to prove how 
erroneous it would be to attribute the success solely to the 
enthusiasm of an Anti-Spontini party. An Anti-Spontini 
party ? I see the expression is strange to you. Do not 
suppose that it is a sort of political party. The violent 
strife between Liberals and Reactionaries, as we see it in 
other capitals, cannot break out here in full force, because 
the royal power, established in the centre of and on the 
outside of these parties, exercises its puissant arbitration. 
But, instead, one often sees in Berlin an equally edifying 
party-strife between musicians. Had you been here at 


the end of last summer, you could easily have pictured 
to yourself, by the spectacle of the present day, what in 
the past must have been the war of the Gluckists and 
Piccinists in Paris. , . . But I see I must speak more 
explicitly of the Opera in Berlin; first of all because it 
is the chief subject of conversation in the town, and 
secondly, because without the following remarks it will 
be impossible for you to grasp the sense of many of my 

As to our singers I will not speak of them at present. 
Their eulogies are stereotyped in all the Berlin correspond- 
ence articles, and in the newspaper criticisms. Daily one 
reads: Midder Hauptmann is superb, Schulz is exquisite, 
Seidler is excellent. Briefly, it is incontestable that the 
opera has here been brought to an astonishing perfeclion, 
and that it yields in no whit to any other in Germany. 
Are these results due to the indefatigable activities of the 
late Weber? Or else is it the Knight Spontini, who, 
according to the assertions of his adherents, has called 
all these wonders into life, as with a magic wand ? I have 
grave doubts on the subject. I venture to think that the 
directorship of the great knight has exercised a very harmful 
influence on certain parts of the opera. But I strictly 
maintain that, since the complete separation between 
the drama and the opera, and since the latter has been 
delivered over to the absolute government of Spontini, 
it has suffered daily harm through the natural predilection 
of the great knight for his own grandiose creations and 
those of geniuses who are his friends or relatives; and 
through his equally natural antipathy to the music of such 
composers whose spirits are not in harmony with his, or 
horribile dictu who have even dared to enter into rivalry 
with him. 

124 HEINE. 

I am too much of a layman, in the domain of music, to 
dare pronounce my own judgment upon the merits of the 
compositions' of Spontini, and all that I now say is merely 
the echo of public opinion, which is easy to overhear in the 
come-and-go conversations of the day. 

Spontini is the greatest of all living composers. He is a 
musical Michael Angelo. He has opened new paths in 
the realm of music. He has fulfilled what Gliick only 
presaged. He is a great man, he is a genius, he is a god ! 
So speaks the Spontini party. And the walls of the palace 

resound with such immoderate praise . You must 

know it is the aristocracy which is especially enthusiastic 
over Spontini's music, and showers upon the master signs 
of favour. To these noble patrons the whole Spontini 
party has joined itself, a party very naturally composed 
first of all of a crowd of men who give blind adherence to 
the most distinguished and legitimate taste of the day; of a 
crowd of enthusiasts for everything foreign ; of a few com- 
posers who would fain have their own productions put upon 
the stage; and finally of a few veritable votaries. 

It is easy to guess what elements compose a portion of 
the opposite party. Many are hostile to the good knight 
because he is an Italian, others because they are envious 
of him. Others, again, because his music is not German. 
But the greater majority find in his music only a noise of 
cymbals and trumpets, clanging bombast, and an unnatural 
style. Add to this the anger of many people. , . . Now, 
my dear friend, you can understand the noise which filled 
all Berlin this summer, when Spontini's Ofympia was 
represented for the first time upon our stage. Were you 
not able to hear the music of this opera in Hamm ? There 
were no lack of cymbals and trombones, so much so that 
one wit made a proposal that the solidity of the walls of 


the new theatre should be tested by means of the music of 
this opera. A lesser wit came away from the noisy opera, 
and when he heard the beat of drums in the street he 
cried, drawing a long breath, "Ah ! at last one can listen to 
quiet music ! " All Berlin sharpened its wits over the 
numbers of trombones and over the great elephant in the 
scenic effects of this opera. The deaf were enchanted with 
so much gorgeous display, and vowed they could feel the 
beautiful thick music with their hands. The enthusiasts, 
however, cried out, " Hosannah, Hosannah ! Spontini is 
himself a musical elephant ! He is an angel with the last 
trumpet ! " 

Shortly afterwards Karl Maria von Weber came to 
Berlin; his Freischutz was played in the new theatre, and it 
charmed every one. The adversaries of Spontini had now a 
rallying point, and in the evening, after the first perform- 
ance of his opera, Weber was feted in the most brilliant 
manner. In a very fine poem, whose author was Doctor 
Forster, it was said of the Freischutz that "he chased 
nobler quarry than the elephant." Weber the other day 
inserted in the Intelligenceblatte an expression of annoyance 
thereat, and, while cajoling Spontini, blamed poor Forster, 
whose intention had nevertheless been excellent. Weber 
had then a hope of obtaining a place in the Grand Opera; 
he would not have assumed so exaggerated a modesty had 
he foreseen that all hopes of establishing himself in Berlin 
were in vain. He quitted us after the third representation 
of his opera, travelled back to Dresden, there received a 
brilliant call to Cassel, which he refused, to take up again 
the directorship of the opera at Dresden, where he is com- 
pared to a good general without soldiers. He has now 
started for Vienna, to superintend a new comic opera of his. 
Concerning the worth of the text, and of the music of Der 

126 HEINE. 

FreischutZ) I send you the great critical article upon it, 
written by Professor Gubitz in the Gesellschafter. This 
intellectual and keen-sighted critic has the merit of being 
the first to appreciate in detail the romantic beauties of 
this opera, and of having accurately predicted its great 

Weber's physiognomy is not very striking. He is small 
of stature, with badly-formed legs, a long face without 
especially agreeable features. But the face is redeemed by 
the intellectual earnestness, the firmness of purpose, and the 
calm will, which impress us so strongly in the paintings of 
the old German masters. What a contrast between his 
figure and that of Spontini ! The tall stature, the deep-set, 
sparkling dark eyes, the black curling hair which half covers 
the lined forehead, the half-melancholy, half-disdainful 
curve of the lips, the fierce expression of the yellow face, 
which reflects every passion past and to come, the whole 
head that seems to belong to Caliban, and which it is never- 
theless impossible not to call beautiful and noble: all 
these at a glance reveal the man and the mind which 
brought forth Vestalin, Cortez, and Olympia. 

Of the composers here to be named directly after 
Spontini, Bernhard Klein comes first. He has long since 
won deserved fame through certain very pretty compositions, 
and his grand opera Dido is awaited with great impatience 
by the entire public. This opera, in the opinion of those 
connoisseurs to whom the composer has communicated 
certain fragments, contains wonderful beauties, and should 
prove a chef eFceuvre of German national genius. Klein's 
music is quite original. It differs wholly from the music of 
the two above-mentioned masters; as wide a contrast as 
between their physiognomies and the joyous, amiable, 
virile face of our genial Rheinlander. Klein comes from 


Cologne, and may well be considered the pride of his native 

G. A. Schneider must not be passed over in silence. 
Not that I consider him a composer of the first order, but 
because, as author of the music for KorefFs Aucassin et 
Nicoktte, he has been the subject of popular discus- 
sion from the 2 6th of February till the present day. 
During eight whole days one heard nothing spoken of 
except Koreff and Schneider, Schneider and Koreff. Here, 
dilettante genius tore the music to pieces; there, a group 
of bad poets and schoolmasters massacred the text. For 
myself, this opera amused me extremely. The sprightly 
tale, developed by the gifted poet with such grace and 
child-like simplicity, charmed me. I delighted in the 
pleasing contrast between the solemn Land of Evening and 
the brilliant Orient, and as, in these most marvellous, loosely 
connected pictures, adventure followed on adventure, there 
sprang up within me the spirit of the flower of romanticism. 
There is always great excitement in Berlin whenever a new 
opera is to be given; an interest stimulated in this instance 
by the fact that Schneider, the musical director, and Koreff, 
the privy councillor, are here universally known. The 
latter we are about to lose, as for a long time past he has 
been preparing for a protracted journey in foreign parts. 
It is a loss to our town, for this man is distinguished by 
social virtues, by an agreeable personality, and by nobleness 
of sentiment. 

You know now what is sung to-day in Berlin, and I 
come next to the question, what is talked about in Berlin ? 
I have intentionally spoken of singing first of all, for I 
am persuaded that men learned to sing before they learned 
to talk, in the same way that metrical speech preceded 
prose. I believe, in short, that Adam and Eve made their 

128 HEINE. 

declarations of love in melodious adagios, and that they 
nagged one another in recitative. Did not Adam, moreover, 
beat time to it ? In all probability. This custom of beat- 
ing time has been preserved among the Berlin populace 
by tradition, while at the same time they have lost another 
old tradition, that of singing in time. Our ancestors in the 
valleys of Cashmere warbled after the manner of canary 
birds. How we have perfected ourselves ! Perhaps birds 
will one day attain to the art of speech ? Dogs and pigs 
are well advanced on that road; their barking and grunting 
is the transition between song and speech. The first speak 
in the langue d'oc, the others use the langue d'ceil. 
Compared with us other Germans the bears 1 are very back- 
ward in civilisation, and though they rival us in the art of 
dancing, their growling, compared with other German 
modes of speech, is not yet worthy of the name of speech. 
Asses and sheep once reached the point of speech: they 
had their classic literature, held excellent discourses upon 
pure asinity, on the sheep's associations, upon the idea of a 
sheep's head, and upon the splendour of the old bucks. But, 
as often happens in the course of things in this world, they 
have retrograded so far from civilisation that they have lost 
their speech, and have only retained the cordial Ee-aw, and 
the childishly pious Baa ! 

But how am I to pass from the Ee aw of long ears, from 
the Baa of the thick-woolpates, to the works of Sir Walter 
Scott ? For of these I must now speak, because all Berlin 
speaks of them, because they are the Jungfernkranz of 
the reading world. They are everywhere read, admired, 
criticised, cut up, and again re-read. From the countess 
to the milliner, from the count to the messenger, every one 
reads the romances of the great Scott; and, in particular, 
1 I.e., the Berlinese. 


our sentimental ladies. These lie down with Waverley and 
get up with Red Gauntlet, and during the whole day they 
have the Dwarf between their fingers. The romance 
Kcnihvorth has caused an especial furore, as there are 
very few persons here who are blessed with a knowledge of 
English; the greater majority of our reading world help 
themselves with French and German translations. Of these 
there is no lack. Of the latest of Walter Scott's novels, 
The Pirate, four translations were announced at the same 
time. Two were published here, that of Frau von Monten- 
glant by Schlesinger and that of Doctor Spieker by Drucker 
and Humboldt. The third translation is by Litz in Ham- 
burg, and the fourth will be brought out in the pocket 
editions of the Brothers Schumann in Zwickau. In such 
circumstances it is obvious that certain collisions are 
unavoidable. Frau von Hohenhausen is at work now 
upon a translation of Ivanhoe, and from this excellent 
translator of Byron we may anticipate an equally excellent 
translation of Scott. I even believe that this latter will, if 
anything, be superior ; for the gentle soul of this beautiful 
woman, so deeply in sympathy with the purely ideal, will 
reflect the serene, pious, chaste types of the friendly Scott 
with greater clearness than the dusky, infernal figures of 
the morose, heart-sick Englishman. The beautiful, tender 
Rebecca could not fall into more beautiful or tender hands, 
and the sensitive poet need in this instance only translate 
straight from her heart. 

The name of Walter Scott has recently been feted in a 
most remarkable way. On the occasion of a festival there 
was a brilliant masquerade, wherein most of the heroes of 
Scott's novels were personated in their characteristic cos- 
tumes. This fete and these figures were talked about 
during eight consecutive days. A special point of interest 


1 30 HEINE. 

was that the son of Sir Walter Scott, who happened to be 
in Berlin at the moment, paraded at the brilliant fete as a 
Scottish Highlander, with the naked legs required in this 
costume, that is, wearing no trousers, but only a sort of 
apron which reached to the middle of the thighs. This 
young man, an officer in the English Hussars, has been 
made much of here, and enjoys his reflected glory. Where 
are the sons of Schiller? Where are the sons of our great 
poets, who, if not without trousers, yet in all likelihood 
wander about without shirts? Where are our greater 
poets themselves? Hush, hush, that's not to be talked 
about ! 

I do not wish to be unjust and leave unnoticed the 
veneration paid to the name of Goethe, the German poet 
most spoken of in Berlin. But, hand on heart, may it not 
nave been the fine worldly-wise conduct of our Goethe which 
contributed the most to secure so brilliant a position for 
him, and allowed him to enjoy to so high a degree the 
affection of our nobles ? Far be it from me to detract in 
the slightest degree from the old gentleman's character. 
Goethe is a great man in a silken coat. Quite recently he 
displayed the greatest magnanimity towards his art-loving 
compatriots, who, wishing to erect in his honour a monu- 
ment in the noble precincts of Frankfurt, had called 
upon all Germany for subscriptions. In Berlin the sub- 
ject was discussed to an amazing degree, and your humble 
servant wrote the following sonnet, which was honoured 
with applause : 

Give ear, ye German women, men, and children, 
And gather in subscriptions unabashed ; 
The citizens of Frankfurt have determined 
To raise an honourable monument unto Goethe. 


"Strange merchants at the Fair-time will perceive," 
So thought they, "that we are this man's associate; 
That from our hot-bed this fine flower has sprung, 
And blindly will they trust us in transactions." 

Oh, leave the poet his own laurel crown, 
Ye merchantmen ! Keep ye your gold. 
A monument to self has Goethe raised. 

In swaddling bands was he akin to you, yet now 

A whole world lies between yourselves and Goethe, 

You, whom the merest streamlet divides from Sachenhauser. 1 

The great man, as is well known, put an end to all such 
discussions; he returned the letters of the citizenship of 
Frankfurt to his compatriots with the declaration that he 
was certainly not a Frankfurter ! 

Since then this right of citizenship to use Frankfurt 
parlance has fallen ninety per cent, in value, and the 
Frankfurt Jews have now the best hopes for this beautiful 
acquisition. But to speak again in Frankfurt parlance 
have not the Rothschild and the Bethmann 2 stood long 
enough at par ? The merchant, over the whole world, has 
the same religion. His counter is his church, his desk is 
his confessional, his ledger is his Bible, his warehouse is his 
holy of holies, the exchequer bell is his vesper bell, gold is 
his god, credit is his creed. 

I must take occasion at this point to mention two 
novelties; first, the new hall of exchange, modelled upon 
that of Hamburg, and opened a few weeks since; and, 
secondly, the old but newly-revived project, the conversion 

1 Sachenhauser is a little town situated opposite Frankfurt, on the 
other side of the Maine, of which all the inhabitants have an old 
reputation for grossness of living. 

3 An untranslatable pun. Bethmann (the name of a rich banker) 
signifies, word for word, devout man, bigot, or beadsman. 

1 32 HEINE. 

of the Jews. But I will pass over both in silence, for I 
have never been in the new hall, and the Jews are much 
too sad a subject. Eventually, it is true, I shall be forced 
to revert to them when I touch upon their new cult, which 
has arisen here in Berlin in particular. I cannot do so 
as yet, for hitherto I have neglected to assist even once 
at the new Mosaic divine service. Neither will I write 
anything concerning the new Liturgy, which long since 
was introduced into the Cathedral-Church, and is the 
principal subject of town-talk at the moment; because 
otherwise my letter will swell to the size of a book. The 
Liturgy had a crowd of gainsayers. They were headed, I 
hear, by Schleiermacher. Not long since I listened to one 
of his sermons, delivered with the power of a Luther. In it 
was no lack of veiled attacks upon the Liturgy. I must 
confess that he did not arouse in me any feelings of 
exemplary piety, but, nevertheless, I was edified in the 
true sense of the term, strengthened by his fiery darts, 
and urged from the downy bed of drowsy indifference. 
This man has only to throw aside the black robe of the 
priest in order to appear as the priest of Truth. 

An extraordinary impression has been produced here by 
the invectives launched against the Faculty of Theology. 
They appeared in the notice of the pamphlet, "Against the 
collection of the VVette documents" (in the Voss news- 
paper), and in the "Response to the declarations of the 
said Faculty." Beckendorf is usually mentioned as the 
author, but it is not definitely known from whose pen either 
the "Notice" or the "Response" has proceeded. Some 
people name Kampf, some Beckendorf himself, others 
Klindworth, others Buchholz, etc. It is impossible not 
to perceive the hand of a diplomatist in this treatise. 
It is said that Schleiermacher is at work upon a re- 


filiation, and it will not be difficult for this powerful 
orator to shut the mouths of his adversaries. That the 
Faculty of Theology ought to reply to these attacks is 
obvious, and the whole public is looking forward with 
eager curiosity to the answer. 

The two supplementary volumes to the Dictionary of 
Conversation by Brockhaus is also impatiently awaited, for 
the natural reason that they, according to the promises of 
the prospectus, should contain biographies of a great num- 
ber of public characters, who, living partly in Berlin and 
partly abroad, are habitual subjects of conversation. I 
have just received the first instalment, from A to Bomz 
(published ist March 1822), and I pounced with avidity 
on the articles Albrecht (Cabinet minister), A/opaeus, Alten- 
sfeiti, Ancillon, Prinz August (of Prussia), etc., etc. Among 
the names that may interest our Rhenish friends I pick 
out Akkum, Arndt, Begasse, Benzenberg, and Beugnot, 
the brave Frenchman who, despite of his hatred-inspiring 
position, has given to the inhabitants of the Grand-Duchy 
of Berg so many beautiful proofs of a noble and great 
character, and who to-day fights so valiantly in France for 
Truth and Justice. 

The measures against the Brockhaus publication are still 
in process of execution. Brockhaus was here last summer, 
and sought to ameliorate his differences with the Prussian 
government. But his efforts seem to have been in vain. 
Brockhaus is a man of agreeable personality. His exterior, 
his penetrative earnestness, and his firm frankness, betoken 
him to be a man who does not regard science and the strife 
of opinions with the ordinary eyes of the bookseller. 

As everywhere else, Grecian affairs have been thoroughly 
discussed, but ardour for the Greeks is almost extinct. 
There was much youthful enthusiasm for Hellas; the older, 

134 HEINE. 

more reasoning people, shook their grey heads. The ardour 
of the Philologians flamed fiercely. The Greeks must have 
been greatly edified in that they were remembered in so 
poetic a manner by our Tyrtaeans on the anniversaries of 
Marathon, Salamis, and Plataa. Our Professor Zeune, who, 
according to the observation of the optician Amuel, not 
only wears spectacles, but is also a judge of spectacles, 
proved the most active in the matter. Captain Fabeck, who, 
as you have learned through the public papers, travelled from 
here to Greece without having sung many Trytasian songs, 
must to all accounts have performed astonishing exploits 
there, and has now returned to Germany to rest on these 

It is now decided that Kleist's drama, Der Piinz von 
Hamburg oder der Schlagkt bei Fehrbellin, is not to be 
produced on our stage, for this reason, I am told, that a 
certain noble lady believes that therein an ancestor is 
personated in ignoble guise. This piece is still an apple 
of discord in our aesthetic circles. For myself, I am per- 
suaded that it is as though written by the Genius of Poetry 
herself, and that it is of more worth than all those farces 
and show-pieces, and all those poached eggs of Houwald, 
which are daily dished up for us. Anne JBoleyn, a tragedy 
by the very talented poet Gehe, who is here at the present 
moment, is being rehearsed. Herr Rellstab has offered a 
tragedy, entitled Karl der Kuhne von Burgund, to our 
manager, but I do not know if the piece has been accepted. 

Tongues have wagged tremendously since it has been 
known that Hoffmann's new novel, Der Floh und seine 
Gesellen^ has been confiscated by the Government pro- 
secutor. The latter had discovered that the fifth chapter 
of this novel contained persiflage upon the commission of 
inquiry into democratic agitations. That, in high quarters, 


very little notice was taken of this persiflage has been amply 
proved, inasmuch as under their very eyes Jean Paul's Komet 
was printed by Reimer, with the permission of the censor; 
and in part of this novel the inquiries inte these agitations 
are ridiculed in the most unholy manner. As to our Hoff- 
mann, probably those in high places had excellent reasons 
for taking such pleasantry in bad part. Hoffmann, councillor 
of the chamber, by virtue of the king's confidence in him, 
was himself a member of that commission of inquiry. 
Could he, therefore, diminish the authority of the same 
through untimely pleasantry, without committing a repre- 
hensible indecorum ? This is why Hoffmann has been called 
to account. Der floh will, nevertheless, be printed, but 
with certain alterations. Hoffmann is ill at the moment, 
is suffering from a severe catarrh. In my next letter I 
will perhaps write more concerning this author, whom I 
love and honour too much to forbear from speaking of 

Herr von Savigny will lecture this summer. The jugglers 
who play their farces before the Brandenburg Gate got into 
difficulties, and have long since left. Blondin is here, 
and will perform his feats of riding and springing. The 
headsman, Schumann, fills the Berlinese with surprise and 
dismay. But Bosco, Bosco, Bartholomea Bosco ! it is he 
you should see ! He is a true pupil of Pinetti; he can cure 
broken watches quicker than the watchmaker Labinske; 
he knows how to shuffle the cards and how to make the 
marionettes dance. Tt is a pity that the fellow has not 
studied theology. He was formerly an Italian officer; is 
still very young, manly, powerful, and wears a close-fitting 
jacket and black silk breeches. What is still more to the 
point is that when he performs his tricks he almost wholly 
bares his arms. Feminine eyes must rejoice over these 

136 HEINE. 

much more than over his tricks. He is really a fine fellow, 
it must be admitted, when one sees the mobile figure in the 
glare of fifty long wax-candles, planted like a flickering 
forest of lights before his long table, spread with a strange 
assortment of jugglering apparatus. He has moved his 
show from Jagor's Hall to the Englischen Hause, and 
sightseers crowd there in surprising numbers. 

I spoke yesterday in the Cafe' Royal to the Kammer- 
musikus. He imparted an amount of small news to me, 
of which I have remembered only the smallest portion. 
Understand that most of it concerns musical Ckroniques 
scandaleuses. On the zoth there will be an examination 
at Doctor Stopel's, who teaches the piano and thorough- 
bass after the Logier system. Graf Briihl has almost 
recovered from his illness. Walter from Karlsruhe will 
soon appear in another farce Staberle's "Hochzeit." Herr 
and Frau Wolf have gone on tour to Leipsic and Dresden. 
Michael Beer has written a new tragedy in Italian, Die 
Briiule von Arragonien; while in Milan a new opera by 
Meyerbeer is about to be performed. Spontini is at work 
on a musical setting to Koreff's Sappho. Certain philan- 
thropists are desirous of founding a home for waifs, similar 
to that of Privy Councillor Falk at Weimar. Cosmeli has 
published at Schiippet's library his Harmless Observations 
made during Travels across a portion of Russia and Turkey, 
which will not prove so very harmless, because this original 
writer regards everything with his own eyes, and says and 
gives his impressions with unbiassed directness. Reading 
libraries are subjected to the supervision of the police, to 
whom they are obliged to submit their catalogues ; all 
wholly obscure books, such as most of Althing's novels, 
those of A. von Schaden, and such like, are prohibited. 
The last-named, who has just journeyed to Prague, has 


recently published Licht und Schaitenseiten von Berlin 
("Lights and Shadows of Berlin"), a pamphlet which is 
said to contain many false assertions, and has excited a 
great deal of ill-feeling. The manufacturer Fritsche has 
invented a new and much cheaper kind of candle. Many 
important transactions have been made in promise, in view 
of the approaching drawing of the Pramien-Stadtschuld 
coupons. The banking firm of L. Lipke & Co. alone have 
placed nearly a thousand pieces. Boettiger and Tieck 
are expected here. The spiritual Fanny Tarnow resides 
here. The new Berlin Monthly Review came to an end 
in January. General Menutuli has sent the manuscript 
of his diary of travels from Italy to Professor Fischer, so 
that it may be prepared for printing. Professor Bopp, 
whose lectures on Sanscrit are always a great success, is 
now writing a great work upon comparative philology. 
About thirty students, among whom were many Poles, 
have been arrested on account of the democratic disturb- 
ances. Schadow has finished the model of a statue of 
Frederick the Great. The death of young Schadow, in 
Rome, has excited general sympathy. Wilhelm Schadow, 
the painter, has recently produced a very fine picture 
representing the Princess Wilhelmina and her children. 
Wilhelm Hensell journeys to Italy in May. Kolbe is at 
work upon the designs for the glass paintings in the Castle 
of Marienburg. Schinkel is doing the sketches for the 
scenes in Spontini's Milton. This is an opera in one act, 
which, although not new, is shortly to be performed here 
for the first time. The sculptor Tieck is at work upon 
the model of a statue of Faith, which is to stand in one 
of the two niches at the entrance of the cathedral. Rauch 
is still busy with the bas-reliefs for Billow's statue; this, as 
well as the now finished statue of Scharnhorst, will be 

138 HEINE. 

placed on either side of the new guard-house (between the 
University and the Arsenal). The State works, to judge 
from outward appearances, are progressing rapidly. The 
notabilities of East and West Prussia will be dismissed 
to-day by our Government, and replaced by those of our 
Saxon provinces. The notabilities of our Rhenish pro- 
vinces will, it is said, be the last to be called. It is not 
possible to learn anything of these negotiations between 
the governments and the notabilities, because they have 
taken juramenta silentiL Our differences with Hesse, con- 
cerning the violation of territorial rights owing to the 
abduction of a princess at Bonn, do not seem to have 
been adjusted; there is even a possibility of our ambas- 
sador at the Court of Cassel being recalled. A fresh Saxon 
ambassador, Graf Lobran, has definitely been recalled; a 
new Portuguese ambassador is daily expected. Our Prussian 
ambassador at the Court of Portugal, Graf von Flemming, 
the nephew of the State Chancellor, is still in Berlin. A 
fresh French ambassador also is awaited. Our envoys to 
the royal court of Saxony and to the grand-ducal court 
of Darmstadt, Herr von Jordan and Baron von Otterstadt, 
are still here. The approaching marriage of the Swedish 
Prince Oscar with the beautiful Princess Elise Radzewill 
is much discussed. Nothing further is said of the marriage 
of our Crown Prince with a German princess. Great 
are to be the festivities on the occasion of the marriage 
of the Princess Alexandrine. Spontini will compose 
for the ceremony Das Rosenefst in Caschemir, in which 
two elephants will appear. The ministerial assemblies do 
not take place at present ; those which still continue are 
held on Tuesdays, at the house of Prince Wittgenstein, 
Our State Chancellor has quite recovered, and resides here 
from time to time, also at Glienicke. At Eastertide the 


Annals of the Royal Universities of Prussia will be pub- 
lished. The librarian Spieker is to bring out the comedy 
Lalla Rookh. The giant who was to be seen in the 
Konigstrasse is now at the Pauseninsel. Devrient is not 
quite convalescent yet. Boucher and his wife are at 
present giving concerts in Vienna. The new operas of 
Karl Maria von Weber are entitled Euryanthe, with text 
by Helmine von Chezy, and Die Beiden Pinitfs, the text 
by Hofrath Winkler. Bernhard Romberg is here. 

Ah heavens! Chronicle writing is a thankless task. 
The most important items may not be communicated, 
unless they can be guaranteed. Small gossip must cer- 
tainly not be written ; first because, though it is interesting 
in Berlin, it often sounds vapid and scrappy in the pro- 
vinces. How, in Heaven's name, can it interest the ladies 
in Diilmen if I relate how this young dancer can now 
speak in due/is, and that that young lieutenant wears false 
calves and false haunches? How can it concern these 
ladies whether such and such a dancer represents one or 
two persons to me, or whether the said lieutenant con- 
sist of two-thirds wadding and one-third flesh, or of two- 
thirds flesh and one-third wadding? Why, in short, 
write notices upon men of whom no notice should be 
taken at all ? 

It is easy to guess how one has lived here, this winter. 
No special description is required ; winter diversions 
are the same in every capital town. Opera, theatre, 
assemblies, balls, tea-parties (dansant as well as medisant), 
with masquerades, private theatricals, grand entertainments, 
etc. etc. ; these are about all our winter evening amuse- 

Social life is very animated in Berlin, but it is split nearly 
into shreds. Society is divided into a number of little 

140 HEINE. 

circles, grouped one beside the other, each trying to 
contract its limits instead of extending them. Take the 
numerous balls, for example ; one would think Berlin was 
composed solely of coteries. The court and the ministers, 
the diplomatic body, civilians, commercial men, mer- 
chants, officers, etc., etc. All give their own balls, at 
which no one attends who does not belong to that special 
set. With some of the ministers and ambassadors these 
assemblies are more of the nature of big tea-parties, which 
are given on special days in the week, and are trans- 
formed into balls according to the greater or lesser influx 
of guests. All the balls of the upper class strive with more 
or less success to resemble the court balls or the princely 
balls. As regards the latter, nearly all civilised Europe 
has now adopted the same tone, or, more properly speaking, 
they are all modelled on the Parisian balls. Consequently, 
there is nothing characteristic about our balls in Berlin, 
though a singular effect is occasionally given when a sub- 
lieutenant on his slender pay, or a penniless young lady 
attired in mosaic-like patched and bedizened garments, 
strain their utmost to affect a distinguished bearing at 
these balls; so that, like marionettes in a show, their 
pathetic, pitiful faces form a sharp contrast with the stiff 
court costume in which they are attired. 

There is one kind of ball which, for some time past, has 
been open to all classes ; namely, the subscription ball, or 
what is jokingly nick-named the unmasked masquerade. 
It is held in the concert-room of the new theatre. The 
King and Court honour it with their presence, and 
usually open it ; any one can participate by paying a 
modest entrance fee. Baronine Caroline Fouque, so 
distinguished for her qualities of heart and mind, has 
very prettily described these balls and other court festivi- 


ties in her Letters on Berlin ; indeed, I cannot sufficiently 
recommend these letters to you on account of their insight. 
This year the subscription balls were not as brilliant as last 
year's, when they still had the charm of novelty. In com- 
pensation, the balls given by the great functionaries of the 
State were especially brilliant this winter. My dwelling 
is surrounded by a number of mansions of princes 
and ministers; frequently, of an evening, I have been 
unable to work on account of the noise, the crunching 
of wheels and the stamping of horses. At times the whole 
street is blocked with equipages ; the numberless carriage- 
lanterns light up the braided red-coats who run in between 
calling and swearing, while crystal chandeliers pour their 
gay and biilliant light through the large first-floor windows 
whence the music resounds. 

This year we have had very little snow, and consequently 
we have scarcely heard the sleigh bells and the cracking 
of whips. As in all great Protestant towns, Christmastide 
plays the chief part in the great winter comedies. One 
week beforehand every one is busy purchasing Christmas 
presents. All the costume shops and all the jewellery 
and hardware merchants make display of their choicest 
articles as our dandies do their learned acquaintances. 
On the Schlossplatz are erected a crowd of wooden stalls 
hung with clothing, household goods and toys, and the 
sprightly Berlinese flit like butterflies from shop to shop, 
buy, gossip, ogle, and show their taste and themselves at the 
same time, to admiring onlookers. But it is in the evening 
that the fun is at its height; for then these charmers, often 
with the whole of their respective families, with father, mother, 
aunt, brothers, and sisters, are to be seen, pilgrimaging 
from one confectioner's stall to another, as though to the 
stations of the Cross. These dear folks pay their two 

142 HEINE. 

groschen for entrance money, they feast their eyes to 
their heart's content on the exhibition, on a let of dolls 
made of sugar or of comfits, which are displayed tastefully 
one beside the other. Lighted round about, and stored 
within four walls painted in perspective, they form a pretty 
enough picture. The amusing point of the thing is that 
these sugar puppets frequently represent some real and 
well-known personage. 

I wandered through a crowd of these confectioners' 
booths, for I know nothing more diverting than to watch 
unobserved, how the pretty Berlinese enjoy themselves, how 
their bosoms swell with excitement, palpitate rapidly, and 
how these naive souls ejaculate shrilly, " Ah, but it is 
lovely ! " At Fuch's, during the exhibition this year, were 
to be seen pictures of Lalla Rookh^ such as were shown 
last year at the Castle during the Court festival of which you 
have heard. It was impossible for me to see anything of 
these wonders at Fuch's, because the pretty heads of these 
ladies formed an 'impenetrable wall before the square sugar 
tableau. I will not bore you with my opinion of this con- 
fectioners' exhibition ; on it Karl Miichler, the war minister, 
he who, it is said, is the Berlin correspondent of the Ele- 
ganten Welt, has already written an article in that paper. 

Concerning the balls in Jagor's hall there is nothing of 
especial importance to be said, except that the excellent 
regulation exists that whosoever fears that he or she may be 
bored to death, is perfectly at liberty to beat a retreat. The 
balls at the Opera-house are splendid and on a grand scale. 
On these occasions the whole of the pit is boarded over on 
a level with the stage to form one huge hall lighted from 
above with an immense number of oval chandeliers. The 
burning globes have almost the appearance of solar systems, 
as represented in astronomical compendiums ; they attract 


and confuse the eyes of the onlooker, and pour their dazzling 
shimmer on the brilliantly coloured, glittering throngs, as 
they dance and hop and crowd together on the swaying 
floor, till the sounds of the music are almost overpowered. 
On these occasions every one must wear a mask, and no 
one is allowed to uncover in the great hall. Indeed, I know 
no place where this would be permitted. Only in the 
corridors, and in the first and second tier of boxes, may 
the mask be removed. People of the lower classes pay 
a very small entrance fee, and watch all this splendour 
from the galleries. In the big royal box the courtiers can 
be seen, of whom the greater part are without masks. Now 
and again one of their number descends to the centre hall 
and mixes with the noisy masqueraders. These are com- 
posed of men of all classes. Difficult it is indeed to decide 
if such and such an one is a courtier or a tailor's apprentice; 
it may be possible to recognise them by their outward 
manner, but certainly not by their garments. Almost all 
the men wear a simple silken domino and a tall opera 
hat. The obvious explanation of this is the egotism of the 
inhabitants of large towns. Each one wishes thus to amuse 
himself, but not to play the part of a character- mask for the 
amusement of others. For the same reason the ladies are 
quite simply masked, usually as bats. A crowd of femmes 
entretennes and ordinary priestesses of Venus flutter about 
in this guise and form profitable intrigues. " I know you," 
whispers one of these wandering stars. " I know you 
too," is the answer. "I know thee, my fine masquer- 
ader," a bat calls out in front of a dissolute young fellow. 
" If thou knowest me, my pretty one, thou art no one in 
particular," replies the wicked one aloud, and the com- 
promised donna vanishes like the wind. 

But what does it signify who is behind the mask ? Each 

144 HEINE. 

one wishes to enjoy himself, and, for enjoyment, only masking 
is necessary. Mankind is man pure and simple only at a 
masque ball, where the waxen mask covers the usual mask 
of flesh, where the simple " tliou " re-establishes the 
familiarity of primitive societies, where a domino hides all 
pretensions and brings about the most beautiful equality, 
where the most beautiful freedom reigns the freedom 
of the mask. To me a ball of this kind is always of the 
highest enjoyment. When the cymbals crash and the 
trumpets blare, and the gentle voices of flutes and violins 
mingle in sweet accord, I throw myself like a swimmer 
into the swirling, fantastically illuminated human flood. I 
dance and run, and joke, and nod to every one, and laugh 
and chatter whatever comes into my head. I was particu- 
larly joyous at the last ball ; I could almost have walked 
on my head. If my most deadly enemy had come across 
my path I would have said to him, " To-morrow we will 
shoot one another ; but to-day I will kiss you right cordially." 
Love is the purest joy, God is love, therefore God is the 
purest joyousness ! "Thou art beautiful! thou art charm- 
ing ! Thou art the delight of my heart ! I adore thee, my 
pretty one." These were the words that my lips repeated 
instinctively a hundred times. And I shook every one's 
hand and took my hat off politely to every one, and all were 
also very polite to me. Only one German youth was 
abusive, and jeered at what he called my apeing the manners 
of the Modern Babylon, and thundered out in his ancient 
Teutonic beer-bass, " At a German mummery, Germans 
should speak German ! " O German youth, how silly and 
blasphemous you and your words seem to me in such 
moments when my soul envelops the whole world with 
love ; when, rejoicingly, I would embrace both Turks and 
Russians, would throw myself weeping on the breast of my 


brother, the enchained African ! I love Germany and 
Germans, but I love none the less the inhabitants of the 
other portions of the earth, whose number is forty times 
greater than that of the Germans. Love gives mankind his 
true worth. God be praised ! I am worth forty times more 
than those who cannot extricate themselves from the slough 
of national egotism, who love Germany and Germans only. 


I HAVE just donned my gala coat, black silk breeches, and 
ditto stockings, and thus attired I proclaim to you in the 
most solemn manner: 

The exalted marriage of Her Royal Highness the 
Princess Alexandrine with His Royal Highness the 
hereditary Grand Duke of Mecklenburg-Schwerin. 

Concerning the festive part of the nuptial ceremonies you 
have certainly read the detailed description in the news- 
papers, therefore, all I need say on the subject may be 
brief. But there is another important reason why I should 
say little, and that is because I have really seen very little 
of it. As, however, I at all times concern myself more 
with the spirit rather than the details of my matter, that 
does not matter much. In truth, I had not sufficient fore- 
sight to gather even the requisite facts. It was certainly 
arranged long since that the marriage of these exalted 
personages should take place on the 25th. But so 
frequent were the assertions of its postponement that 
positively on Friday the 24th I could not venture to believe 
the ceremony would take place on the morrow. Nor was 
I alone in this opinion. On the Saturday morning the 


146 HEINE. 

streets were not particularly animated; but on all faces an 
eagerness, a mysterious anticipation, were obvious. Ser- 
vants, hairdressers, band-boxes, dressmakers, etc., hurried 
about. The day was fine, and not too sultry, but the 
people perspired. About six o'clock the rumbling of 
carriages was first heard. 

I am neither a noble, nor a states' official, nor an officer, 
consequently I have no admission to Court, and could 
not assist at the marriage festivities in the castle itself. 
Nevertheless, I went as far as the court of the castle in order 
to see at least the whole personnel of those who had admit- 
tance. I have never elsewhere seen so many beautiful 
equipages in one place. The servants had on their best 
liveries, and in their brightest coloured coats and knee- 
breeches with white stockings they looked like Dutch 
tulips. Many of them wore more gold and silver on their 
bodies than the whole household of the Burgomaster of 
North America. 

But the coachman of the Duke of Cumberland carried oft 
the prize. Indeed, to see this flower of coachmen perched 
on his box was alone worth a journey to Berlin. What is 
Solomon arrayed in all his glory; what is Haroun-al- 
Raschid in his caliph's robes; what is even the Triumphal 
Elephant in Spontini's Olympia in comparison to the 
grandeur of this magnificent coachman ! On less festive 
days he is sufficiently imposing with his truly Chinese 
porcelain trimness, with the pendulum-like movement of 
his powdered head and heavy pig-tail, with the three 
cornered wishing-cap on his head, and the wonderful 
mobility of his arms in the management of his horses. But 
to-day he wore crimson clothes, consisting of half a frock- 
coat, half an overcoat, and breeches of the same colour, all 
embroidered with gold facings. His noble head, powdered 


chalk white, ornamented with an enormously big black 
hair-bag, was covered with a black velvet cap with a long 
peak. In the same manner were dressed the four flunkeys 
who stood behind on the carriage, holding one another in 
firm positions with brotherly interlinkings, and showing 
four black hair-bags to the gaping public. But the coach- 
man carried in his face the air of the natural ruler, as he 
directed the six-in-hand state-carriage; firmly he held the 
reins, "and fast flew on the horses." 

There was a frightful crush of people in the courtyard of 
the castle. It must be admitted the Berlin women are 
not shy. The tenderest of maidens gave me pokes in 
the ribs which I still feel to-day. Happily for me I am not 
a pregnant woman. I squeezed myself through the crush 
and luckily reached the portal of the castle. The officer of 
the police, pushing back the crowd, let me pass through 
however, because I wore a black coat, and because he per- 
ceived in me that my abode is hung with red silk curtains. 
From that moment I could easily see the great lords and 
ladies getting out of their carriages, and I amused myself 
extremely examining the distinguished court costumes and 
court faces. The first I cannot well describe because I 
lack the genius of the tailor; from questions of municipal 
policy I refrain from depicting the latter. Two pretty 
Berlin women who stood near me were in ecstasies over the 
beautiful diamonds, the gold embroideries, the flowers, the 
gauze, the satin, the long trains and the coiffeurs. For my 
part I admired still more the beautiful eyes of these admirers, 
and was somewhat annoyed when some one tapped me in a 
friendly way on the shoulder and I saw the little red- 
cheeked face of the Kammermusikus beaming at me. He 
was tremendously agitated, and skipped like a tree frog. 
" Carrissimo" he quaked, "do you see that beautiful countess 

148 HEINE. 

over there ? A cypress-like figure, hyacinth locks, her 
mouth is a rose and a nightingale together, the whole 
woman is a flower, and like a poor flower that is pressed 
between two sheets of blotting paper she stands there 
between her grey aunts. Her lord and husband, who 
browses upon such flowers instead of thistles, in order to 
make us believe that he is no donkey, has to remain at 
home to-day. He has a cold in his head, lies upon the sofa, 
and I have been obliged to entertain him; we gossiped for 
two hours upon the new Liturgy, so that my tongue has 
become thinner by reason of so much talking, and my lips 
hurt me from continuous smiling." 

At these words the corners of the musician's mouth con- 
tracted into a sour court smile, which he licked away again 
with his fine little tongue. Suddenly he exclaimed again, 
"The Liturgy! the Liturgy! it will fly upon the wings of the 
red eagle of the third class from church tower to church 
tower, jusqu'a la tour de Notre Dame! Let us speak of 
something reasonable. Observe those two dandies who are 
now driving past. The one squashed, made-up face, with 
a thin head full of soft cotton-wool thoughts, and a vest 
of coloured embroidery, gala-rapier, conical white silk-clad 
legs. See how he gabbles in French, which, if it were 
translated into German, would be nothing but nonsense. 
As a contrast look at the other, the big man with the 
moustache, that Titan who will lay siege to every earthly 
paradise. I wager he has as much wit as Apollo Belve- 
dere." In order to divert the thoughts of this tattler I 
pointed out to him my barber, who stood opposite to us, 
and who had donned his new coat made in old German 
fashion ! The musician's face became red as a cherry, and 
he ground his teeth: "O Saint Marat! so that lout wishes 
to play the hero of Liberty! O Danton, Callot d'Herbois, 


Robespierre!" In vain I hummed the song, " Eine feste 
Burg, O lieber Gott," etc. 

In vain; I had only made matters worse. The man 
plunged into his old stories of the Revolution, and chattered 
of nothing but guillotines, of lanternes, of the September- 
breaking of prisons; until by good luck I remembered his 
ridiculous fear of powder, and I said to him, " Do you know 
that twelve cannons will be fired off directly in the pleasure- 
garden ? " I had scarcely spoken these words when every 
trace of the musician had disappeared. 

I wiped the cold perspiration from my face as soon as I 
was rid of the fellow, and now watched the latest arrivals ; 
I bowed smilingly to my beautiful neighbours, and betook 
myself to the pleasure garden. There twelve cannons were 
in position, to be fired off the moment in which the 
princely bridal pair should exchange rings. An officer 
stood at a window of the castle to give the signal to the 
artillerymen in the garden. A crowd of people had 
gathered. One could read on their faces strange and 
almost contradictory thoughts. 

It is one of the finest traits in the character of the 
Berlinese that they are indescribably attached to the king 
and royal family. The princes and princesses are the 
chief topic of conversation in the poorest bourgeois 
houses. A true Berlinese never uses other expressions 
than our Charlotte, our Alexandrine, our Prince Charles, 
etc. . . . The Berlinese, so to say, associates his whole life 
with that of the royal family, and he regards all the 
members thereof as old acquaintances; he knows the 
particular charactei of each, and is always delighted to 
note new traits in them. Thus the Berlinese knows, for 
example, that the crown prince is very witty, and that is 
why every bon mot goes the round of the town under the 

150 HEINE. 

name of the crown prince so that to this one Hercules 
of wit the witty exploits of all the other Hercules are 

You can, therefore, form an idea of how deeply the 
beautiful, brilliant Alexandrine is beloved; and by the 
light of this love you can explain to yourself the con- 
tradictory emotions betrayed by the faces of the people, 
as, full of expectation, they watched the high windows of 
the castle, wherein the marriage of our Alexandrine was 
being celebrated. Vexation they dared not show, for it 
was the wedding-day of their beloved princess; neither 
could they rejoice unreservedly, for on this day they were 
to lose her. Near me stood an old mother on whose face 
could be read, "I have married her, it is true, but she 
is lost to me now!" The face of my young neighbour 
expressed the thought, " As Duchess of Mecklenburg, she 
certainly does not rank so high as when she was queen of 
all our hearts ! " On the red lips of a pretty brunette I 
read, " Ah ! would I were at the same point myself ! " 

Suddenly the cannons thundered out, the ladies 
trembled, the bells rang, clouds of dust and smoke arose, 
the young folks shouted, the people trotted home, and the 
sun sank blood-red behind Monbijou. 

The wedding festivities were not especially noisy. On 
the morning following the nuptial benediction the newly- 
married highnesses assisted at the service in the Cathedral 
Church. They drove in the gold coach with great glass 
windows, drawn by eight horses, and were well stared at 
by an immense crowd of people. If I mistake not, the 
above - mentioned flunkeys wore no hair - bags on this 
occasion. In the evening the ceremony of court felicita- 
tion was held, and thereafter a polonaise ball in the White 
Hall. On the zyth there was a grand banquet in the Hall 


of the Knights, and in the evening the exalted and most 
exalted personages repaired to the Opera-house, when 
Spontini's opera, composed especially for this festival, 
Nurmahal oder das Rosenfest in Caschemir, was performed. 
Most people had great difficulty in obtaining tickets for that 
evening. One was given to me, but I did not go. I ought 
to have gone in order to describe it to you? But do you 
think I ought to sacrifice my life for my correspondence ? 
I still think with horror of the Olympia, at which, for 
particular reasons, I was obliged recently to be present, and 
whence I emerged with all my limbs bruised. I went, 
however, to the Kammermusikus, and asked him what 
sort of an opera it was. He answered me, "The best 
point in it is that there are no gunshots." Nevertheless, 
I cannot rely on this musician's verdict. In the first place 
he himself is a composer, and greater than Spontini in his 
own opinion ; secondly, he had been made to believe 
that Spontini was to write an opera with a cannon obligate. 
The newly-married pair were unanimously received with 
joyous acclamations. Nurmahal is not particularly well 
spoken of. It is certainly no masterpiece. Spontini has 
inserted in it many extracts from his old operas, with the 
result that while this opera certainly contains some good 
passages, the whole is a very patchwork affair, and lacks 
sequence and unity, hitherto the chief merits of this com- 
poser's music. The splendour of the setting of the piece 
is said to be unprecedented. The scene painter and the 
theatrical tailor have surpassed themselves. The theatre- 
poet wrote the verse, consequently it must be good. No 
elephants appeared in it. 

The Staadtszeitung of the 4th July censures an- article of 
the Magdeburger Zeitung, wherein it is stated that two 
elephants were to appear in the new opera, and observed, 

152 HEINE. 

with Shakespearian wit, " These elephants are doubtless still 
at Magdeburg." If the Magdeburger Zeitung gleaned this 
piece of news from my second letter, I deplore with heartfelt 
sorrow that I am the luckless one who drew down upon 
it this witty thunder. I withdraw it, and indeed with such 
humility and contrition that the Staadtszeilung will weep 
tears of emotion. For the rest, once and for all, I declare 
that I am ready to retract whatever may be demanded of 
me, providing it does not cost me too much trouble. I 
had myself heard, in fact, that two elephants were to appear 
in the Rosenfest. Later, I was assured it would be two 
camels, and still later they were called two students, and 
finally they were to be Angels of Innocence. 

On the 28th there was a free ball. As early as half-past 
eight masqueraders were driving up to the Opera-house. I 
have described these balls in my former letter. The only 
distinction in this instance was that no black dominoes 
were admitted, that all the masks wore shoes, that at 
one o'clock unmasking in the hall was allowed, and that 
the entrance tickets and refreshments were given gratis. 
This last point seemed to be the chief attraction. I carry 
in my breast the firm conviction that the Berlinese are 
models of civilisation and of fine manners, and that they 
have reason to look with disparagement on the unpolished 
manners of my compatriots; also, I have witnessed on many 
occasions that the poorest Berlinese is a master in the art of 
enduring hunger decently, and of smothering the cries of 
his stomach under the forms of the most perfect conven- 
tion. Otherwise, I might have conceived an unfavourable 
opinion of these people when I saw at this free ball how 
they pressed six deep round the Buffet, poured glass after 
glass down their throat, crammed their stomachs with 
cakes, and with so disgraceful a voracity, so heroic a 


constancy, that it was almost impossible for an ordinary 
human being to break through the buffet-phalanx, in order, 
on account of the extreme heat in the hall, to cool one's 
tongue with a glass of lemonade. The king and the whole 
court were at this ball. The sight of the new-married pair 
charmed every one present. The bride shone more by her 
amiability than by her rich diamonds. Our king appeared 
in a dark blue domino. The princes wore, for the most 
part, old Spanish or knightly costumes. 

I have long since pointed out that it is my caprice 
alone and not precedence which decides the order in 
which I recount the Berlin occurrences to you. Had I 
adhered to dates I would have been obliged to begin my 
letter with the jubilee of Privy Councillor Heim. The 
papers will have sufficiently acquainted you with the way 
in which this eminent doctor was feted. It was talked 
about for two whole days, and that is saying a great deal. 
Everywhere anecdotes of Heim's life were repeated; some 
are very diverting. The most comical, in my opinion, is 
that of the way in which he mystified his coachman, who 
one day declared to him that he had driven Heim about 
for so long a time that he now wished to become a doctor 
and learn how to cure people. Many other civilian jubilees 
took place about the same time, and, at Jagor, there was a 
constant popping of the corks of champagne bottles. As 
a rule, people here, before one is aware of it, have served 
for fifty years. It is the climate that does it. Even a 
serving-maid held her jubilee, and in the Eleganten can 
be read how this jubilee-maiden was feted and celebrated 
in song. I heard yesterday that actually a matron in the 
Unschuldsgasse had celebrated her jubilee. She was 
crowned with lilies and roses; a sentimental sword- 
bearing youth presented her with a sonnet, quite in the 

154 HEINE. 

style of the usual jubilee poetry, in which love, dove, 
strength, length, appeared in rhymes, and twelve maidens 

" Oh, sword upon my side, 
What mean thy bright flashes," etc. 

You see, Theodor Korner's poems are still sung. Not, 
certainly, in the circles of good taste, where it was long 
ago considered to be very fortunate matter that in the 
year 1814 the French did not understand German, and 
could not read those insipid, stale, flat, unpoetical verses, 
over which we Germans were so enthusiastic. Nevertheless, 
these poems of deliverance are still declaimed and sung in 
those little cosy reunions where one warms oneself in winter 
at the innocent straw fire that crackle in these patriotic 
songs; and as the old white horse of Frederick the Great 
pranced again youthfully and went through the whole of 
the manoauvres whenever he heard a trumpet, in the same 
way the fine sentiments of many Berlinese are aroused 
when they hear of Korner's songs. They lay a hand 
gracefully on their bosom, heave a tremendous sigh of 
admiration, rise courageously, and say, " I am a German 

I perceive, dear friend, that you look at me somewhat 
askance on account of the bitter mocking tone in which 
I at times speak of things, dear and rightfully dear, to 
others. I cannot do otherwise. My soul glows too 
ardently in the interests of true liberty not to be seized 
with dejection when I see our pretty prattling heroes of 
Freedom in their ash-grey insignificance. In my soul, 
the love of Germany, and the reverence for German 
magnificence, is too keen for me to chime in with the 
thoughtless gabble of those penny-mannikins, who coquet 


with everything pertaining to the German dominion. Many 
a time the almost convulsive desire has arisen in me, with 
a bold hand to tear away the halo of old lies which surround 
their heads, to pull the skin off the lion himself, because I 
suspect an ass is concealed beneath it. 

Again, I will say very little anent the theatre. The 
comic actor Walter has met with success here; but for my 
own part his humour is not to my taste. On the other 
hand, I was perfectly enchanted with Lebrun from Ham- 
burg, who, a short time ago, played some first parts here. 
He is our best German comic actor, unsurpassed in jovial 
characters, and thoroughly deserves the approbation that 
all Berlin connoisseurs gave him. Karl August Lebrun 
is a born actor; nature has endowed him in full measure 
with every talent necessary to his career, and art has 
brought them to perfection. But what shall I say of 
Neumann, who has bewitched the city, even the critics 
themselves? What miracles a beautiful face works! It 
is fortunate that I am short-sighted, otherwise this Circe 
would certainly have changed me into a grey little quad- 
ruped, as she has one of my friends. This unfortunate 
has now such long ears that the one appears in the 
Vossischen Zeitung and the other in the Hande und Spener 
Zeitung. This lady has already sent certain youths mad; 
one of them now has hydrophobia, and no longer writes 
verse. Whoever approaches this beautiful woman feels 
happy. One collegiate vowed a platonic love for her, 
and sent her a caligraphic sample of his handwriting. 
Her husband is also an actor, and he shines like glazed 
linen in the comedy entitled Kabeljau und Hiebe. The 
good lady must often be incommoded by the numerous 
visits from her admirers. It is related that a sick man, 
who lived next to her, and could never rest on account 

156 HEINE. 

of all these men, who every minute rang at his door-bell and 
asked, "Does Madame Neumann live here?" at last had 
written on the door of his apartment, " Madame Neumann 
does not live here." 

The beautiful woman has even been cast in iron, and 
small iron medallions stamped with her effigy are sold. 1 
tell you, the enthusiasm over Madame Neumann rages here 
like a murrain. While I write these lines I feel under the 
influence myself. I still hear ringing in my ears the words 
of ecstasy with which an old grey head spoke of her yester- 
day. Homer could not describe Helen's beauty more 
vividly than when he showed how old men were seized with 
delight at the sight of her. Many medical men also pay 
their court to the beautiful woman, so much so that she is 
sometimes playfully called the Venus of Medicine. But 
why should I make so long a tale, for without doubt you 
have read our theatrical criticisms, and have usually noticed 
a sort of metrical form in them, which is no other than that 
of Sappho's Ode to Venus. Yes, she is a Venus, or, as 
a merchant of Altona said, a Venusine, only the accursed type- 
setter occasionally casts the sting of a wasp into this cup of 
Hymettus honey, that our pious critic offers to our goddess. 

The explanatory Intelligenzblate (the title of this paper is 
ironical) corrects the following mistake in print, " In the 
critical article upon the dramatic play of Madame Neumann 
No. 63 of the SpeneSschen Zeitung of the 25th May in 
line 26, instead of 'light play of love,' 'a light play of 
expression' should be read." Yesterday the beautiful woman 
played in Clauren's new comedy, Der Brautigam ans 
Mexico. One is charmed as in a fairy tale, with its light, 
bright originality, which must appeal to all lovers of joyous- 
ness. This piece has pleased many people, indeed every- 
thing that comes from the pen of this author receives 


immense respect. His writings have many adversaries, 
nevertheless they run through one edition after another. 

A people's theatre has been erected on the Alexander- 
platze. A certain man, named Cerf, who held the licence 
for it, has renounced it, and receives in exchange the sum 
of 3000 thalers yearly. Bethmann, who was formerly an 
actor, has undertaken the management. Professor Gubitz 
has been offered the charge of the poetical part of this 
theatre. It is to be hoped that he will accept, for he 
is thoroughly acquainted with the stage and its economy. 
He is celebrated as a dramatic poet, critic, and at the 
same time as a master in the art of drawing. This versa- 
tility combines everything that is necessary for such a 
directorship. But it is doubted if he will accept it, for the 
editorship of the Gesellschafler, to which he devotes himself 
heart and soul, fully occupies his time. This journal has a 
large circulation of more than 1500 copies, I believe; it is 
read here with an astounding amount of interest, and may 
well be called the most important and best in Germany. 
Gubitz edits it with a zeal and conscientiousness that borders 
on anxiety, for in his love of correctness and decency he is 
almost too rigorous. Yet do not suppose him to be a 
pedant. He is a man in the prime of life, frank, full of 
activity, joyous, enthusiastic for everything beautiful ; his 
whole personality exhales the jovial anacreontic spirit, that 
is so marked a characteristic of his poems. 

We have latterly had a new weekly journal that concerns 
itself with popular tastes ; it is edited by Lieutenant Leit- 
hold, who has recently published an account of his travels 
in Brazil, under the title of Kuriositaten und Rarit&tcn, 
bearing a very na'ive motto. The best people's journals here 
are Des Beobacler an der Spree and Der Mdrkische Bote. 
The latter appeals to the more educated class. I was 

158 HEINE. 

amazed to find a portion of my second letter reprinted in it 
from the Anzeiger. I am very sensible of the honour done 
me and of the praise indicated thereby; but it might have 
brought me into very grave trouble, had not a gallant Censor 
at Berlin erased what I had said concerning the Berlinese 
ladies. If these angels had read those passages, the flower 
baskets would have flown at my head by the three-score. 
Yet even then I would not have taken refuge on the Hunde- 
brucke; the beautiful maiden Fortuna has long since given 
me so large an iron basket that I would scarcely be able to 
fill it with all the tiny baskets of all the lady inhabitants of 
the Spree. 

At No. 26 Unter den Linden, a serpent of a very rare 
kind is to be seen for eight groschen. I take this occasion 
to inform you that it is precisely where I have fixed my 
quarters. Blondin with his company still gives his delightful 
and much frequented exhibitions of equestrian skill before 
the Brandenburg Gate. He represents, among other things, 
Columbus landing at Otaheiti. Bosco has finally given his 
last representation but one, his last, and very last, and has 
also given one on behalf of the poor. People say that he 
imitates Boucher. It is not true ; it is Boucher who imitates 
the juggler. The statues of Biilow and Scharnhorst will one 
of these days be placed on either side of the Guard House. 
They are on view at present in Rauch's studio. It was 
there I took a look at them some time ago and thought them 
beautiful. Blucher's statue, by the same artist, which is to 
be placed in Breslau, has started for its destination. 

I have seen the new Exchange. It is very handsomely 
got up. It has a number of spacious rooms, on a very 
grand scale, beautifully decorated. I am told that the 
noble art-loving son of the great Mendelssohn, Joseph 
Mendelssohn, is the creator of this institute. Berlin has 


long been in need of something of the kind. Not only 
merchants, but also functionaries, learned men, and persons 
of all classes, frequent the Exchange. The most attractive 
portion is the lecture-room, wherein I found more than 
a hundred German and foreign journals, including our 
Westf. Auzieger. Doctor Boehringer, a man well versed 
in literature and science, who superintends this hall, knows 
how to ingratiate himself with the visitors through his polite 
forethought. Josty has the charge of the restaurant and of 
the confectionery department. The attendants all wear 
brown liveries trimmed with gold, and the doorkeeper is 
especially imposing with his great marshal's staff. 

The new construction going on close to the Lindens, 
whereby Wilhelmstrasse is to be lengthened, proceeds 
apace. The form is a scene of magnificent arcades. 
The foundation-stone of a new bridge has also been 

In the musical world there is absolute silence. The 
capital of music does the same as other capitals ; it con- 
sumes what is produced in the provinces. With the excep- 
tion of the young Felix Mendelssohn, who, according to 
the judgment of all the musicians, is a marvel and, it is 
thought, may become a second Mozart, I know no single 
musical genius among the resident Berlin aborigines. 
Most of the musicians who distinguish themselves here 
come from the provinces, or even from abroad. It is an 
unspeakable pleasure to me to be able to notify that our 
compatriot Joseph Klein, the youngest brother of the 
composer of whom I spoke in my last letters, excites the 
highest expectations. He has already composed many 
things that are praised by connoisseurs. Song-accompani- 
ments by him will shortly be published; they have met 
with great success here, and have been much sung in 

160 HEINE. 

society. His melodies, of a surprising originality, speak 
straight to the heart; and it is obvious that this young 
artist will one day become one of the celebrated German 
composers. Spontini left us a long time ago. He is on 
his way to Italy. He sent his Olympia to Vienna, where it 
was, nevertheless, not performed because it would have 
cost too much. The Italian stayed here only a few days. 
There is under the Lindens an exhibition of wax figures. 
In the Konigstrasse, at the corner of Poststrasse, wild 
animals and a Minerva are being exhibited. 

Fonk's trial is here as everywhere else the subject of public 
conversation. Kreuser's very well-written pamphlet first 
turned public attention upon him. Thereafter came many 
other pamphlets all in his favour. The most important of 
them was that by Freiherr von der Leyden. These books, 
with the memoirs on the Fonk trial in the Abendzeitung and 
the Konversationsblatti and the work by the accused himself, 
have produced a favourable opinion of him. Certain per- 
sons, who are secretly against Fonk, nevertheless speak for 
him in public out of pity for the unhappy man who has suffered 
for so many years. In one social gathering I mentioned 
the horrible position of his innocent wife, the sufferings of 
his honest and respectable family, and when I related how 
it is said that the populace at Cologne had insulted Fonk's 
poor children who are under age, one lady fainted, and one 
pretty damsel began to weep bitterly and sobbed, " I know 
the king will pardon him, even if he be condemned." 
I am equally persuaded that our truly humane king will 
exercise the most beautiful and divine of his rights, and not 
plunge so many deserving people into misery ; I hope it as 
sincerely as the Berlinese, though I do not share their 
opinion concerning the trial. A propos, I have heard 
an astounding variety of random opinions. Those who 


speak most weightily on the matter are the gentlemen 
who know nothing at all about it. My friend, the young 
humpbacked lawyer, thinks that if he were on the Rhine 
he could soon clear the matter. He is of opinion, more 
especially, that legal proceedings in those provinces is 
worth nothing. "What is the use of all this publicity ?" he 
said yesterday. " How does it concern Peter or Christopher 
whether Fonk or some one else murdered Coenen ? Let 
the matter be handed over to me; I light my pipe, read 
through the acts, and make my report; the commission will 
consult thereover with closed doors and pronounce the 
verdict, and decide whether the fellow is acquitted or 
accused, and not a comment will be made. Of what use 
this jury, these tailor and glover godfathers? I believe, 
I, a man who has studied, who has attended Fries's course 
of logic at Jena, who possesses certificates of the full course 
of legal studies, who has passed all examinations, must, there- 
fore, possess more judiciary knowledge than these ignorant 
men ! In the end such an one marvels at his own import- 
ance, because so much depends upon his yes or no ! And 
the worst of all is this Code Nupolion, this bad statute-book 
which docs not allow one even to box a servant's ears ! " 
But I will not allow this learned lawyer to talk any longer. 
He represents the mass of men who are on Fonk's side 
because they are against the Rhenish mode of administrat- 
ing justice. People resent it here, and would willingly free 
the Rheinlanders from these "Fetters of French tyranny," 
as the immortal Justus Gruner God save his soul one 
day named the French law. May the beloved Rheinland 
bear these fetters still longer, and may she be laden' with 
other similar fetters ! May that pure love of freedom, which 
is not based on hatred of the French and on national 
egotism, long flourish on the Rhine; that veritable strength 


1 62 HEINE. 

of youth whose source does not spring from the brandy 
bottle; that true religion of Christ which has nothing 
in common with zealous pursuers of heterodoxy or hypo- 
critical proselytisers ! There is no University news, 
except that thirty-two students have been expelled on 
account of the resumption of prohibited associations. It 
is a fatal thing to be expelled ; the reprimand alone is in 
itself sufficiently disagreeable. I hope this severe sentence 
against the thirty- two will be mitigated. I have no wish to 
defend these associations at the University ; they are the 
remains of that ancient corporation system which I 
prefer should wholly disappear. But I understand that 
these associations are the natural consequences of our 
academical order, or rather disorder, which in all probability 
will not disappear until the charming and popular Oxonian 
stall-and-forage system be introduced for our students. 
About half-a-dozen Polish students are usually to be seen 
here. A severe inquiry had been instituted against them. 
The most of them, it is said, decamped without any wish 
to return, but a great number, about twenty I believe, 
are still in our State prison. The majority of them are 
from Russian Poland, and these are accused of having 
raised demagogic disturbances against their own govern- 

It is announced that Louis Tieck will soon come here, to 
give some lectures on Shakespeare. The 3ist of last month 
was the binhday of the princely State Chancellor. A depu- 
tation from Hesse is expected to settle our differences with 
Hesse concerning the violation of territorial rights. A com- 
mission has been sent to Pomerania to make inquiries into 
the various religious sects there. The wool- market has 
already commenced, and a good many landed proprietors 
are here who bring their wool for sale, and are jokingly 


nicknamed " Wollhabende." 1 Even the streets have awaked 
to ambition. The Letzhstrasse (the Last Street) is now to 
be named Dorotheenstrasse. There is a talk of erecting a 
statue to Frederick the Great on the Operaplatz. The 
family of dancers named Kobler have had their baggage 
burnt upon the highway near Blunberg. A steam machine 
is now in use for the construction of the new bridge. 

At this moment there is very little literary news, notwith- 
standing that Berlin is the central market of literature. In 
the matter of vegetables I go with the season; I no longer 
eat asparagus, I eat green peas. But in literature I have 
fallen behindhand. Thus I have not even read the Falschen 
Wanderjahre, which has made and still makes so much 
stir. This book has an especial interest for Westphalia, for 
it is usually attributed to our compatriot, Dr. Pustkuchen, 
in Lemgo. I do not know why he wished to disavow this 
book, which, however, need not put him to the blush. 
People cudgelled their brains in vain to discover who was 
the author, and settled upon a variety of names. The 
Court Councillor Schiitz made it publicly known that it 
was not he. A few voices suggested the Councillor of the 
Legation, Von Varnhagen ; but he made a similar dis- 
claimer. Indeed this attribution was very improbable, 
because he is one of the staunchest admirers of Goethe, 
and Goethe himself in his last number of the review, 
Kunst und Alterthum am Rhein> declared that Varn- 
hagen had understood him profoundly, and had even 
enlightened Goethe concerning himself. Of a truth, next 
to the consciousness of being Goethe himself, I know no 
more desirable feeling than to receive from Goethe, the 

1 An untranslatable play upon words. Wohlhabende signifies those 
who possess wealth; the word Wollhabende, substituted 'in its place, 
signifies those who possess wool. 

1 64 HEINE. 

man standing upon the topmost seat of the century, a 
testimony of that description. 

Moreover, there is much talk here over the German 
Gil Bias, which Goethe published four weeks ago. The 
book was written by a former servant. Goethe revised it 
throughout, and added thereto a remarkable preface. This 
vigorous old man, the AH Pacha of our literature, has 
brought out a new part of his biography. When finished 
it will be one of the most remarkable works, and indeed 
the great epic of our time. For this autobiography is at 
the same time the biography of the epoch. Goethe depicts 
this epoch and its influence most vividly. His is in contra- 
distinction to those other biographies for example, that of 
Rousseau who have only their own pitiful subjectivity in 

One part of Goethe's autobiography, however, will not 
appear till after his death, because in it he discusses his 
relationships in Weimar, and especially those which con- 
cern the Grand Duke. This supplement will probably 
excite the most public attention. We shall receive shortly 
also Byron's Memoirs, though it is said these, like his 
dramas, are largely psychological. The preface to his three 
last dramas contains some very remarkable passages upon 
our century and upon the revolutionary elements with which 
it is pregnant. Great laments are still made over the god- 
lessness of his poetry; and the poet-laureate, Southey, in 
London, calls Byron and his kindred spirits the Satanic 
School. But Childe Harold brandishes most powerfully 
the poisoned whip with which he castigates the poor 
laureate. Another autobiography excites much interest 
here. It is the Memoires de Jacob Casanova de Seinga/t, 
of which Brockhaus has brought out a translation. The 
French original has not yet been printed, and a certain 


obscurity still hovers over the pedigree of the manuscript. 
Of its authenticity there can be no doubt. The Fragment 
sur Casanova in the works of Prince Charles de Ligne is 
a trustworthy witness, and the book itself has that air of 
veracity which a mere fabrication would lack. I would 
not recommend the perusal of it, it is true, to my sweet- 
heart or wife, but to all my friends. This book exhales 
hot breaths of Italian sensuality. The hero himself is a 
vigorous, lusty Venetian, who is chased by a full pack of 
hounds, who has run through all countries, who comes in 
contact with all the most distinguished men, and into still 
closer intimacy with the women. There is not a single line 
in the book which is in accord with my sentiments, nor a 
single-line that I have read with pleasure. 

The second part ought to be out now, but it cannot be 
procured here as yet, for I hear that the Censor yesterday 
again made a descent upon the publishing house of Brock- 
haus. At the moment very few good things have appeared 
in the domain of belles-lettres. Fouque has brought out a 
new novel entitled Du Verfolgle. It is with the poetical 
world as with the musical world. Of poets there is no 
lack; the lack is of good poems. We may expect some 
good things in autumn, however. Kochy (he is not a 
Berlinese), who gave us some time ago a very ample work 
upon the stage, is about to publish a volume of poems; 
and the specimen proofs I chanced to see warrant the 
highest expectations. They are instinct with pure senti- 
ment, rare tenderness, a depth of feeling untroubled by any 
bitterness in a word, with true poetry. Neither is there a 
superabundance of dramatic talent; but I have great expec- 
tation of the young poet, Von Vechtritz (also no Berlinese), 
who has written several dramas that have been praised to 
the skies by connoisseurs. One of these, Der Heilige 

1 66 HEINE. 

Clirysostomus, will appear in print before long, and will, I 
believe, receive considerable notice. I have heard passages 
read from it which are worthy of the great masters. 

In my last letter I promised to tell you concerning 
Hoffmann's Meister Floh (Master Flea). The inquiry 
against the author has been suspended. He is always 
ailing somewhat. I have at last succeeded in seeing this 
much discussed novel. I could not find in it a single line 
that referred to demagogic disturbances. The title of the 
book at first seemed to me very embarrassing; the mention 
of it in society brought a maiden-like blush to my cheeks, 
and I always lisped " Hoffmann's romance," with respect be 
it spoken. However, in Knigge's Umgang mit Menschen 
(" Intercourse with Men ") (part iii. chap, ix., upon the way 
to live with animals; chapter x. treats of intercourse with 
writers) I found a paragraph which dealt with how to live 
with fleas, wherein I saw that these are not so disreputable 
as "certain other little animals," which this profound student 
of men and of beasts himself does not name. This humane 
citation prefects Hoffmann ; I call to mind also the song of 

" There was once a king 
Who had a big flea." 

The hero of the romance, however, is not a flea, but a man 
whose name is Peregrinus Tyss, who lives in a state of semi- 
somnambulism, and by chance came across the Lord 
of the Fleas, and carries on with him very diverting dis- 
courses. This last-named Master Flea is a really clever 
fellow, a little timorous, but nevertheless very belligerent, 
and wears golden top-boots, with diamond spurs on his thin 
legs, as represented on the cover of the book. He is 
accompanied by a certain Dortje Elverdink, who, it is said, 


is intended to represent the demagogues. George Pepusch 
is a fine type of student, who is no other than the thistle 
Zeherith, and flourished once in Famagusta; he is in love 
with the aforesaid Elverdink, who, in reality, is the Princess 
Gamahe, the daughter of King Sekakis. The contrast 
with ordinary life, which the Indian myth thus forms in this 
book, is not so piquant as in Goldene Topf (Golden Pot) 
and other of Hoffmann's romances, wherein the same coup de 
theatre is employed by the aid of natural philosophy. The 
world of feeling, which Hoffmann so wel lunderstood how 
to delineate, is herein treated somewhat colourlessly. The 
first chapter of the book is divine, the others are unendur- 
able. It has no action, no great central interest, no grit. 
Had the binder arbitrarily shuffled the leaves, certainly no 
one would have noticed it. The great allegory, the con- 
fluent in which all the streams ultimately flow, did not 
satisfy me. Possibly others may have been amused by 
the book; for myself I think that a novel should not be an 
allegory. The severity or acerbity with which I speak 
concerning this romance proceeds from the fact that I like 
and esteem all Hoffmann's other works so much. They rank 
among the most remarkable productions of our time. All 
bear the stamp of the extraordinary No one could fail 
keenly to enjoy his Phantasienstucke, 

In the Elexieren des Teufels is to be found all that the 
mind can conceive of horrible and terrible. How weak 
The Monk by Lewis is in comparison, though it treats of 
the same subject I A student at Gottingen is said to have 
gone mad after reading this romance. In the Nacht- 
stucken the author out-Herods himself in the description 
of the gruesome and the ghastly. The devil himself could 
do nothing more devilish. The short stories, which are 
collected under the title of Serapion Bruder, and with which 

1 68 HEINE. 

Kleines Zaches must also be ranked, are not so terrible, 
and have each serene and graceful scenes. The Theater 
Direktor is a mediocre sort of scamp. In the Elementar- 
geist (Elementary Spirit), water is the element, for there 
certainly is no spirit in it. But Prinzessen Brambilla is a 
delicious creature, and if there be a man whose head is not 
turned by her marvels, it is because that man has got no 
head to turn. Hoffmann is quite original. They who call 
him an imitator of Jean Paul understand neither the one 
nor the other. The inventiveness of even two writers is 
totally different in character. A novel by Jean Paul begins 
in a very burlesque manner, and so continues; but suddenly, 
and before one is aware, there emerges a beautiful pure 
world of sentiment, a rosy, blooming island of palms 
irradiated by moonlight; an island which, with all its quiet 
and perfumed splendours, will soon be submerged in the 
hideous, strident, shrilling waves of an eccentric humour. 
The foregrounds of Hoffmann's novels are usually peaceful, 
flowery, and often full of soft emotions; wonderful and 
mysterious beings dance athwart them, pious figures stride 
to and fro, capricious little beings give friendly and un- 
expected greeting; but from out of the heart of this delicious 
picture there grins the hideously contorted masque of an 
old woman, who, after having made the most frightful 
grimaces with the most mysterious haste, disappears once 
more and again leaves free field to the scared-away cheery 
little figures, who recommence their droll capers, but with- 
out being able in turn to dispel the nauseating impression 
borne in upon our mind. 

In my next letters I will speak of the novels of other 
authors in Berlin. They all bear the same character. It 
is the character of the German novel in general. This is 
easily understood when it is compared with the novel 


of other nations, as, for example, with French or English, 
etc., etc. It will easily be seen how the outward conditions 
of the author stamp the novels of a country with a peculiar 
character. The English author travels with the equipages 
of a lord or of an apostle. Regardless as to whether he be 
rich through honorariums or whether he shall be poor, he 
travels mute and self-centred; he observes the customs, the 
passions, the ways of mankind, and mirrors the real world, 
real life, in his novels, sometimes serene (Goldsmith), some- 
times sinister (Smollett), but always realistic and true 
(Fielding). The French author lives constantly in society, 
even in high society, however poor and titleless he may be. 
Princes and princesses flatter Jean Jacque the music-copyist, 
and in Paris salons a minister is called Monsieur, and a 
duchess Madame. Hence French novels are permeated 
by that light society-tone, that suppleness, politeness, and 
urbanity which can be acquired only through intercourse 
with men. Hence, also, the family resemblance between 
all French novels; their language appears always to be the 
same, because it is the polite speech of society. 

But the poor German author usually receives very small 
honorariums; he seldom has any private means, and there- 
fore has no money wherewith to travel, or, at best, travels 
late in life, when he has already acquired a certain style. 
He rarely possesses position or a title which open to him 
the gracious portals of high society. Not infrequently he 
lacks a black coat, which would permit him to frequent the 
society of the middle classes. The poor German shuts 
himself in his solitary attic, creates a world for himself, and 
in a wonderful self-involved style of speech he writes a 
novel wherein figures and types live who are beautiful, 
divine, and highly poetic, but who never existed. All our 
novels bear this fantastic character, the good and bad 

1 70 HEINE. 

alike, from the earliest days of Speiss, Cramer, and Vulpius, 
to Arnim, Fouque, Horn, Hoffmann, etc. All are reflected 
from the character of the people, and we Germans are of all 
nations the most sensitive and susceptible to mysticism, 
secret societies, natural philosophy, absurdities, love, and 
poetry ! 


THE Gallic cock has just crowed twice, and in Germany, 
also, day is breaking. Mysterious shades and spectres take 
flight to remote monasteries, to castles, to Hanseatic towns, 
to all such remaining haunts of the Middle Ages. The sun- 
rays glisten; we rub our eyes, the cheerful light penetrates 
into our heart. Reawakened life stirs around us, we are 
amazed, and we ask of one another, "What did you do to 
us during the past night ? " 

Yes, of a truth we dreamed in our German fashion; 
that is to say, we philosophised. Not, indeed, over the 
truth of things which touched us most closely, or which 
would be highly expedient for us at the time; but we 
philosophised over the reality of things in and for them- 
selves, over the ultimate reason of things, and similar 
metaphysical and transcendental dreams. Therein at 
times we were disturbed by the horrible uproar made by 
our western neighbours, a highly inconvenient noise, for 
not unseldom the French musket balls whistled through 
our philosophical system and carried away whole strips of 
it. It is singular that the practical action of our neigh- 
bours on the further side of the Rhine has nevertheless a 

1 In the original this section is entitled: introduction to "Kahldorf 
on the Nobles." 

172 HEINE. 

peculiar affinity with our philosophic dreams in our peace- 
ful Germany. If only a comparison be made between the 
history of the French Revolution and the history of German 
philosophy, it will then be realised that the French, who 
were engrossed with so many real occupations over which 
it was incumbent upon them to keep watch, must have 
besought us, we Germans, during that time, to sleep and 
to dream in their stead; and that our German philosophy 
is nothing else than the dream of the French Revolution. 
Thus, with us, there came about a rupture between routine 
and tradition in the realm of thought; as with the French 
in the routine of social life. Our Jacobin philosophers 
rallied to the criticism of pure reason and swept away 
everything that could not pass the standard of that 
criticism. Kant was our Robespierre. Thereafter came 
Fichte, the Napoleon of Philosophy, with his Ego, the 
highest love, the supreme egoism, autocracy of thought, 
and sovereignty of will, and rapidly improvised a universal 
empire that as rapidly disappeared the despotic and 
terribly solitary idealism. From beneath his steps trembled 
the mysterious flowers spared by Kant's guillotine, or 
that since then had blossomed forth unnoticed. The 
oppressed earth-spirit arose, the ground trembled, the 
counter-revolution broke out, and, under Schelling, the past 
with its traditional interests was once more recognised, even 
indemnified. Then, in the new restoration, the philosophy 
of nature, there reigned the grey-headed emigrants who 
had always intrigued against the sovereignty of pure reason 
and of idea: mysticism, pietism, Jesuitism, legitimacy, 
romanticism, teutomania, sentimentality. , . . Till, finally, 
Hegel, the heir-apparent of philosophy, founded, or rather 
arranged a new regime, an eclectic regime in which he him- 
self was certainly of little personal importance, but of which 


he is the head, and in which he assigned an assured and 
constitutional position to the old Jacobin Hantists, to the 
Fichte Buonapartists, to the Schelling peers, and to his own 

Now that we have successfully completed the grand circle 
of philosophy, it is natural that we should pass on to politics. 
Shall we observe a similar method ? Shall we open the 
course with the system of the Committee of Public Weal, 
or with that of the system of the Ordre legal? These 
questions cause every heart to tremble; whosoever has 
aught precious to lose, were it but his head, whispers 
apprehensively, "Will the German revolution be a dry 
revolution, or one wet with blood?" 

Aristocrats and priests threaten us constantly with the 
ghastly pictures ot the Days of Terror. Liberals and 
humanitarians promise us, as a contrast, the beautiful 
scenes of the Great Week and the later Pacific fetes; both 
parties deceive, or wish to deceive, each other. For it 
cannot be inferred that because the '92 French Revolution 
was so terrible and bloody, or because that of July was so 
humane and beautiful, therefore a revolution in Germany 
must of necessity partake of either the one or other char- 
acter. Only when the same conditions exist can the same 
results be awaited. The character of the French Revolution 
was from all time determined by the moral condition of the 
people, and in particular by their political development. 
Before the first revolutionary outbreak in France, there 
existed, undeniably, an already formulated civilisation; but 
only among the highest classes, and here and there in the 
middle classes. But, intellectually, the lower classes were 
neglected and hindered by a narrow-hearted despotism from 
all noble endeavour. Political culture was lacking not alone 
among the inferior classes but even among the privileged. 

174 HEINE. 

These were cognisant only of the petty little manoeuvres 
between rival corporations, of a system of reciprocal en- 
feeblement, of traditional routine, of the art of equivocal 
formulas, of the influence of mistresses, and similar State- 
miseries. Montesquieu aroused only a relatively small 
number of spirits. As he always started from an historical 
standpoint, he gained but little influence over the mass of 
an enthusiastic people extremely susceptible to all ideas 
which well forth fresh and spontaneous from the heart, 
as in Rousseau's writings. But, however, when he, this 
Hamlet of France, had gauged the hostile spirit, and had 
exposed the depravity of spirit of the crowned Poison- 
mixer, the brilliant inanity of courtesans, the inept lies of 
court-etiquette, and the universal corruption, he cried aloud 
in his sorrow, "The whole world is unhinged, woe to me 
that I should have set it aright ! " when Jean Jacques 
Rousseau, with a mad despair, half real, half simulated, 
had upraised his great plaint and his accusations; when 
Voltaire, the Lucian of Christianity, had laughed the life 
out of the knavery of Romish priesthood and of the divine 
right of despotism dependent upon it; when Lafayette, 
the hero of two worlds and of two centuries, had returned 
from America with his argonauts of liberty, bringing with 
him as Golden Fleece the idea of a free constitution; when 
Necker calculated, Sieyes defined, Mirabeau spoke; when 
the thunders of the constituted assembly rolled over the 
exhausted monarchy and its flourishing deficit, and new 
thoughts, economical and political, streamed forth like 
sudden lightning, then only were the French able to 
learn the great science of Liberty, Politics : and these 
first rudiments cost them dear, cost them their best 

If, then, the French had to pay so dearly for their school- 


ing, the fault lies with that imbecile light-shunning despotism 
which sought, as we have already said, to keep the people 
in an intellectual minority, that prevented all political en- 
lightenment, confided the censorship of books to Jesuits 
and obscurantists of the Sorbonne, and even paralysed the 
periodic press, the most powerful organ of progress for 
popular intelligence. If one reads in Mercier's Tableau 
de Paris the article on Censure before the Revolution, it 
is impossible to wonder any longer over the crass political 
ignorance of the French, in consequence of which they were 
binded rather than illumined by the new ideas, heated 
rather than warmed, so that they relied upon the word of 
every pamphleteer and journalist, and could be led into 
the greatest excesses by the first self-deceiving fanatic, 
and by every intriguer in the pay of Pitt. That, precisely, 
is the benefit of the Freedom of the Press ; it robs the bold 
speech of the Demagogue of all its cl.arm of novelty, it 
neutralises the passionate word by a counter-word as passion- 
ate, it strangles in their birth lying rumours sown by chance 
or by malevolence, which flourish unabashed in obscurity, 
similar to those venomous plants which flourish only in the 
sombre marshy forests, or in the shadow of old ruined 
castles and churches, but wither up miserably in the bright 
light of the sun. It is true that this bright light of the sun 
of liberty of the press is detested by the slave who prefers 
to be kicked in shadow by the most illustrious of feet, and 
equally by the despot who does care to see his isolation and 
his weakness. The Censure is much appreciated by the 
people, it is true. But it is none the less true that the 
Censure, in lending its aid for a time to despotism, ends by 
destroying itself, together with the despotism; and that, 
wherever the guillotining of ideas takes place, there the 
censorship of men is introduced, so that the very slave who 

i ?6 HEINE. 

kills ideas is he who with equal sangfroid scores the name 
of his master from the book of life. 

Alas ! these spiritual executioners make criminals of 
us all ; and the writer, while he writes, finds himself like a 
pregnant woman, in a state of grave excitement, and in this 
condition very often commits child-murder of his thought, 
precisely from a mad anxiety before the judgment knife of 
the Censor. 

At this moment I myself stifle some innocent new-born 
reflections, upon the patience and forbearance of spirit with 
which my dear compatriots for so many years have endured 
a spiritually murderous law, which in France required only 
to be promulgated by Polignac to bring about a revolution. 
I speak of those celebrated ordinances, the most important 
of which established a severe censure over the daily papers, 
that filled the noble hearts in Paris with stupefaction. The 
most peaceful citizens seized their weapons, the streets were 
barricaded, there were fights, assaults, cannons thundered, 
bells tolled, leaden nightingales whistled, the young brood 
of the dead eagle, L'Ecole politechnique, fluttered from their 
nest with lightning in their claws ; old pelicans of liberty 
threw themselves upon the bayonets and nourished the 
enthusiasm of the young with their blood. Lafayette sprang 
to horse, Lafayette the incomparable, whose like Nature 
could not repeat, and therefore economist that she is ! 
utilised him for two worlds and for two centuries. After 
three heroic days slavery lay on the ground with its red 
sergeants and its white lilies, and the holy tricolour, gleaming 
with the halo of victory, waved from the Church Tower of 
our beloved Notre Dame de Paris. 

There were no horrors, no deliberate massacres, there 
arose no arch-christian guillotine; no atrocious jokes were 
played, such, for example, as that famous return from 


Versailles when the procession carried in front for a 
standard the bloody heads of Deshuttes and Baricourt, 
stopping at Sevres to have them washed and elegantly 
dressed by a citizen hairdresser. No, since those days of 
awful memory, the French Press has imbued the people of 
Paris with better sentiments, with less sanguinary humour; 
it has ousted ignorance from their hearts and has sowed 
the seeds of intelligence in its stead. The result of 
such sowing was that historical moderation and touching 
humanity of the Parisian people during the great week; 
and as a matter of fact, if, later, Polignac did not physi- 
cally lose his head, he owed this good luck exclusively to 
the temperate after-influences of the same freedom of 
the Press which, like a madman, he had endeavoured to 

Thus the sandal-tree refreshed with its delicious perfumes 
the very enemies who wantonly had injured its bark. 

With these cursory remarks I have, I consider, sufficiently 
indicated how every question upon the character which a 
revolution in Germany might assume must take the form 
of a question upon the civilisation and political culture of 
the German people; how culture depends primarily on 
the liberty of the press; how it should be our most 
urgent wish that, by its means, a great flood of light be 
spread abroad before the hour cometh wherein darkness 
shall be more pernicious than passion, wherein opinions 
and ideas shall work with more disastrous potency upon 
the blind crowd, in exact ratio as these ideas have been 
previously openly discussed and used as party watch- 

Civil equality, in Germany as in France, might now be 
the first watch-word of the Revolution. Friends of the 
Fatherland should lose no time, if they wish to influence 


178 HEINE. 

the debate On the Nobility, to be regulated and adjusted 
by means of peaceable discussion, before intractable dis- 
putants join in with their all-too-telling arguments, against 
which neither the lock-and-key remonstrances of the police, 
nor the sharp arguments of the infantry and cavalry, not 
even an Ultima ratio regt's, which could so easily be changed 
into an Ultimi ratio regis, would have any avail. From 
this standpoint I hold that the publication of the present 
work is a meritorious act. I think that the tone of moder- 
ation which reigns therein answers to the aim in view. 
The author combats with Hindoo patience a pamphlet 
entitled: "Upon tJie Nobility and its relationship with the 
Burgherdom. By Count M. von Moltke, chamberlain to 
his Majesty the King of Denmark, and member of the High 
Tribunal of GottorflT. Hamburg, 1830." 

As a matter of fact, neither this pamphlet nor the response 
exhausts the subject; the one and the other treat only of the 
general, or, so to say, dogmatic part of the dispute. The 
noble champion, seated upon his tourney-horse, lustily 
defends the ignoble saying of the Middle Ages, that noble 
breeding produces better blood than burgher breeding; he 
pleads for privileges of birth, for the right of nobles to 
occupy the lucrative posts at Court, in the army, and 
ambassadorial posts, as lawful recompense for the trouble 
they have given themselves in being born, etc. Against 
him arises a combatant who attacks these bestial and 
absurd assertions piece by piece, and beats down other 
aristocratic opinions, until the field of combat is strewn 
with the brilliant shreds of prejudice, and splinters of the 
weapons of the old insolent nobility. This burgher knight 
also fights with closed vizier; the title-page of this writing 
designates him by only a borrowed name, which later may 
perhaps become an excellent nom de guerre. I know very 


little more to relate of him save that his father was a forger 
of swords, and made good blades. 

It is hardly necessary for me to say that I am not the 
author of this writing, but that I merely prepare it for the 
press. I could never have discussed with such moderation 
the pretensions and hereditary lies of the nobles. How 
impetuous I was once, when a charming little count, my 
best friend, who paced with me up and down the terrace of 
a castle, sought to demonstrate to me the superiority of 
noble blood. While we were disputing, his domestic 
committed some slight fault, and the high-born gentleman 
struck the low-born knave in the face, so that the non-noble 
blood broke forth. Moreover, he kicked him down the 
terrace steps. I was then ten years younger than I am 
now, and I immediately threw the noble count over the 
terrace he was my best friend and he broke his leg. 

When I saw him again after his recovery he still limped 
a little he was not even then cured of his pride of noble 
birth, and he asserted anew that the nobility was placed 
as mediator between people and king, in accordance with 
the example of God, for between himself and mankind He 
had placed the angels, who stand next His throne as the 
nobility of heaven. "Gracious angel," I answered him, 
"walk a few steps to and fro." He did so and the 
comparison halted. 

No less lame is an analogous comparison used by Count 
von Moltke. In order to give an example of his manner 
I will quote his own words: 

"The attempt to abolish the nobility, in whom transi- 
tory esteem incarnates itself in enduring form, would isolate 
man, would raise him to an unsteady height void of the 
necessary ties between him and the subordinate masses, 
would surround him with instruments of his own caprice, 

i8o HEINE. 

who, as has often been seen in the East, would put the 
existence of the ruler in a position of danger. Burke calls 
the nobility the Corinthian capital of a well-ordered state. 
The high-minded spirit of this extraordinary man, whose 
whole life was devoted to the service of a reasonable 
freedom, proves that it was on his part not a mere 
figure of rhetoric." 

This example shows clearly to what extent the noble 
count is deceived by appearances. Burke, in reality, does 
in nowise deserve the praise which is here given him ; for 
he lacks that consistency which the English hold to be 
the first virtue of a statesman. Burke possessed only a 
rhetorical talent wherewith he combated, in the second 
part of his life, the Liberal principles which he had 
honoured earlier. Did he intend by this change of 
opinions to gain the favour of the great ? Did Sheridan's 
liberal triumphs in the chapel of St. Stephen's determine 
him, out of jealousy and spite, to become champion of the 
past, of the Middle Ages which afforded a fertile field for 
romantic tirades and oratorical figures ? Was he a knave 
or a fool ? I cannot tell. But I think there is always 
something suspicious when a man's change of principles 
is to the profit of the reigning power; he for ever after 
remains an insecure guarantee. A man who is in this 
position said one day, "The nobles are not the supports 
but the caryatides of the throne." I believe this comparison 
is juster than that of the Corinthian column. In any case, 
we shall refrain as much as possible from drawing attention 
to this comparison; for the capital pretension might occur 
to certain well-known capitalists to raise themselves up 
as the Corinthian capitals of the State pillars in the place 
of the nobles. And that would indeed be a most unsightly 
spectacle 1 


But here I touch upon a point which should not be 
brought to light until a later work, wherein the special and 
practical aspect of the question upon the Nobility may 
be discussed in an appropriate manner. For, as I have 
pointed out above, the present writing is concerned only 
with the principle. It combats the claims based upon legiti- 
macy; its aim is to show how the so-called nobility is a 
contradiction to reason, to our era, and to itself. 

The special and practical aspect, however, concerns 
those victorious usurpations, those false pretensions of 
the nobles which daily threaten and more and more 
undermine the well-being of the people. Indeed, it seems 
to me as though the nobles themselves no longer believe 
in their own pretensions, but that they prate about them 
as a bait to polemics, that the burgher mind may thus 
be occupied, its attention and energies turned from the 
central subject This central idea does not consist in 
the institution ot the nobility as such; not in settled 
privileges, not in the rights of feudal service and of 
jurisdiction, and in all sorts of exemptions and traditional 
immunities. It consists much more in the intangible 
compact between those who can lay claim to such and 
such a number of ancestors, in the tacit agreement to hold 
in possession the whole directing power of the State; so 
that, with one accord thrusting aside the plebeians, they 
can monopolise nearly every high military appointment, 
and all the ambassadorial posts. Thus they can, by means 
of the soldiers under their control, hold the people in an 
attitude of respect, and incite the one against the other 
whenever either attempt to shake off the chains of aristo- 
cracy, or conclude a fraternal alliance between themselves. 

Since the commencement of the French Revolution the 
nobles have thus been on a war-footing against the people; 

1 82 HEINE. 

they combat openly or in secret the principle of Liberty, 
and so are against the French, the upholders of this 

The English nobility, the most powerful of all by reason 
of its privileges and possessions, became the standard- 
bearer of European aristocracy, and John Bull paid for 
this post of honour with his best guineas, and was 
victorious to the point of bankruptcy. During the peace 
that followed this pitiable victory, Austria carried the noble 
banner and represented the interests of the nobles. Upon 
every cowardly petty treaty that was concluded against 
Liberalism there glittered the well-known sealing-wax, and, 
like their luckless leader, the people themselves were thus 
also held under strict surveillance. All Europe became a 
St. Helena whose Hudson Lowe was Metternich. 

But vengeance can be taken only upon the mortal body 
of the Revolution, upon that Revolution become incarnate, 
who, booted and spurred and spattered with the blood of 
the battle-field, stepped into the bed and soiled the white 
sheets of Hapsburg; that Revolution only could be allowed 
to die of a cancer in the stomach. The spirit of the 
Revolution is immortal, and does not lie beneath the 
weeping-willow of Longwood; and, in the great July week, 
the Revolution was born again, not as an isolated indi- 
vidual, but as a whole people, who in this incarnation 
mocked at their gaoler, and he, in his fear, allowed his 
bunch of keys to drop from his hands. 

What an embarrassment for the noble ! He had certainly 
somewhat recovered during the long time of peace from his 
previous fatigues, and since then, in order to strengthen 
himself, he has taken a daily course of asses' milk, the milk 
of the papal ass, in fact. In spite of this he still lacks the 
necessary strength for a new struggle. The English Bull 


can to-day less than any one else make headway against the 
enemy; as heretofore, it is he who is most exhausted, and, 
in consequence of his intermittent ministerial fever, he feels 
a weakness in all his limbs. A radical cure, even a hunger- 
cure, is prescribed for him, over and above which the 
diseased member, Ireland, must be amputated. Neither 
does Austria feel sufficiently heroically inclined to play the 
part of the Agamemnon of the aristocracy against France; 
Staberle 1 does not willingly don his war gear, and he knows 
very well that his umbrella will not protect him against a 
rain of bullets. Moreover, the Hungarians frighten him 
with their bristling moustachios; in Italy he is obliged to 
place a sentinel before every enthusiastic lemon-tree, and 
at home he has to produce archduchesses wherewith in 
case of necessity to propitiate the monster of the Revolu- 
tion. "That kills off one beast," says Staberle. 

But in France the sun of Liberty flames ever more 
powerfully and illumines the whole world with its rays. 
Daily, the idea penetrates deeper of a citizen king without 
court etiquette, without noble valets, without courtesans, 
without intermediaries, without drink, money, or diamonds, 
and such-like luxuries. But the Chamber of Peers is 
already regarded as a hospital for the incurables of the old 
regime^ that is tolerated only out of pity, and in due 
time will be done away with. Strange revolution ! In its 
distress the nobility turns to that state which till quite 
recently she regarded and hated as the worst enemy to her 
interests; it turns to Russia. The great Tzar, who formerly 
had been the standard-bearer of Liberty, because he was 
especially hostile to the feudal aristocracy, and seemed 
impelled to make imminent war upon it; precisely this Tzar 
is now elected by that very aristocracy to be its standard- 
1 A masque or play of the old folk-theatre of the Austrians. 

1 84 HEINE. 

bearer, and he is importuned to become its champion. 
For, although the Russian state rests upon the anti-feudal 
principle of equality of citizenship, absolute Tzardom is, 
on the other hand, incompatible with the ideas of a con- 
stitutional liberty which can protect the meanest subject 
from the benevolent arbitrariness of the prince. Moreover, 
if the Emperor Nicholas I. was hated by the feudalists on 
account of this principle of civil equality; if, moreover, as 
open enemy of England and secret enemy of Austria, he 
was, in fact, with all his power, the representative of the 
Liberals, he has, nevertheless, since the end of July become 
their greatest adversary now that their victorious ideas of 
constitutional liberty threaten his absolutism; and it is 
precisely in his quality of autocrat that the European 
aristocracy know how to entice him into the field against 
free and frank France. The English bull has already lost 
his horns in one such combat, and now it is the Russian 
wolf who is to take his place. The high European nobility 
is cunning enough to know how to employ for its own 
profit, and how advantageously to play upon the terror of 
the Muscovite forests, and the terrible guest is not a little 
flattered that he is expected to champion the cause of the old 
royalty by-the-grace-of-God, against the detractors of princes 
and the gainsayers of the nobility. He takes a pleasure in 
allowing the moth-eaten purple mantle to hang from his 
shoulders with all its Byzantine inheritance of golden 
fripperies, and he allows himself to be presented by the 
venerable Emperor of Germany with the old, worn breeches 
of the holy Roman Empire, and he sets on his head the old 
Frankish diamond-covered cap of Charlemagne. Alas ! 
the wolf has put on the garments of the old grandmother, 
and he tears you to pieces, you poor little red-caps of 
Freedom ! 


It seems to me, while I write this, as though the blood of 
Warsaw spurted over my paper, as though I heard the 
shouts of joy of the Berlin officers and diplomatists. Do 
they rejoice a little too soon ? I do not know, but I and 
all of us are so afraid of the Russian wolf, I tremble lest our 
little German red-caps also soon fill grandmother's foolish 
long hands and great maw. Therefore we must hold our- 
selves prepared in marching array in order to fight with 
France ? Good God ! Against France ? Yes, hurrah ! We 
march against France, and the Ukasinists and the Knout- 
ologists of Berlin pretend that again, as in 1815, we are the 
Saviours of God, King, and Fatherland; that Korner's 
Lyre and Sword shall again be imposed upon us, that to it 
Fouque will add some new battle verses; that Gorres will 
again be bought by the Jesuits to continue the Rhine 
Mercury; that the volunteers of the holy war will receive an 
oak branch to wear in their caps, will be called " Sir," and 
that later they will receive a free entrance to the theatre, or, 
at all events, will be considered as children and pay only 
half-price and, to ensure extraordinary patriotic efforts, the 
whole people, in addition, shall be promised a constitution. 

Free entrance to a theatre is always a pleasant thing, but 
a constitution would also be no bad thing. Yes, we may in 
time even reach the point of longing for one. Not that we 
doubt the absolute good, or the good absolutism of our 
monarchs; on the contrary, we know that they are quite 
charming people; and if, from time to time, there be one 
among them who does dishonour the State as, for example, 
His Majesty the King Don Miguel he is merely an excep- 
tion; and if his very exalted colleagues do not put an end 
to his bloody scandal, as they could easily do, it is merely 
so that by contrast with such a crowned wight they may 
appear more humanely noble, and their subjects may love 

1 86 HEINE. 

them the more. Yet a good constitution has its good side, 
and it must not be taken amiss if even from the best of 
monarchs the people beg a written word concerning matters 
of life and death. A wise father acts very reasonably when 
he builds a few salutary barriers before the precipices of 
sovereign power, so that no misfortune may befall his 
children if they one day gallop too daringly on the high 
horse of pride in company with groups of vaunting noble 
youths. I know a king's child who, in a bad riding-school 
for nobles, learned in advance how to dare the most 
perilous jumps. For such royal children barriers of double 
height must be created, their golden spur must be carefully 
covered, a quiet horse must be apportioned to each, and 
pacific burgherly companions. I know a hunting tale by 
Saint Hubert ! I also know some one who would give a 
thousand Prussian thalers that it could be denied. 

Alas ! the whole history of our time is but a hunting tale. 
It is the time of the grand hunt against liberal ideas, and 
their sovereign majesties are more eager than ever; their 
hunters in uniform shoot at every loyal heart which harbours 
liberal ideas; there is no lack of learned dogs who carry 
back the bleeding word as good prey. Berlin nourishes the 
best couple, and already I can hear the whole pack yelping 
at this book. 


i8 7 


PARIS, June yh. 

THE funeral procession of General Lamarque, un convoi 
d'opposition as the Philippists say, has just left the 
Madeleine for the Place de la Bastille. There were more 
people in mourning and more spectators present than at the 
obsequies of Casimir Perier. The people themselves drew 
the hearse. It was especially remarkable to see the foreign 
patriots whose national banners were carried in file. Among 
these I noticed a flag whose colours were black, red, and 
gold. Towards one o'clock a heavy rain fell, which lasted 
during thirty minutes ; nevertheless the crowd, for the 
most part bare-headed, remained on the Boulevards. 
When the procession reached the Varietes Theatre, and 
at the moment of passing under the column of the friend of 
the people^ many democrats began to call out " Vive la 
Republique." A sergeant of police tried to intervene, but 
he was seized roughly, his sword was broken, and a horrible 
tumult arose, and was repressed with the greatest difficulty. 
The spectacle of such an uproar, which threw some hundred 
thousand of people into commotion, was certainly remark- 
able and suggestive. 

It was rumoured yesterday in the Tuileries that the 
Duchesse de Berry had been arrested at Nantes. If this 

1 88 HEINE. 

be the case, Louis Philippe will be placed in great em- 
barrassment, for he cannot deliver up to justice the niece 
of the Queen who has greatly importuned him ; while he 
dare not arouse any suspicion of being in amicable relation- 
ship with his family at Holyrood. As to Marshal Bourmont, 
it is certain that he has been arrested. If he be taken 
before a council of war, he will die like Ney, only less 
gloriously, and less respected. 

PARIS, June 6th. 

I DO not remember if I mentioned in my last letter that 
towards evening a riot began. 

When Lamarque's funeral procession reached the 
Boulevards, and the incident at the Theatre des Varie'te's 
took place, a general foreboding of evil was felt instinctively. 
It is difficult to say on which side lay the onus of this 
terrible outbreak. The most contradictory rumours are 
still current concerning the commencement of hostilities, 
the events of the night, and the general condition of affairs. 
I will report one occurrence which has been confirmed in 
many quarters by most trustworthy authority. When 
Lafayette, whose presence in the procession had every- 
where excited the greatest enthusiasm, had finished his 
discourse on the Place du Pont d'Austerlitz, where the 
funeral ceremonies were solemnised, a crown of immortelles 
was placed on his head. At the same moment a Phrygian 
cap was hoisted above a red flag which had already at- 
tracted much notice, and a scholar of the Polytechnic 
School raised himself on the shoulders of his neighbours, 
brandished his naked sword over the red cap, and shouted 
" Vive la Liberte" ! " or, according to other reports, " Vive 
la Rdpublique ! " 


Lafayette appears then to have placed his crown of 
immortelles on the red cap of Liberty ; trustworthy people 
declare that they saw this with their own eyes. It is 
possible that these symbolical actions were the result either 
of conspiracy or of sudden caprice; possibly, also, they 
were due to mere exuberance, but unobserved on account 
of the great crush. It is said by some that after this mani- 
festation there was a desire to carry the crowned red cap in 
triumph through the town, and that the fight began when 
the municipal guards and the sergeants of police offered 
opposition arms in hand. This much is certain, that 
when Lafayette, wearied with his four hours' march, stepped 
into a cab, the people unharnessed the horses, and with 
their own hands dragged their old and faithful friend 
through the Boulevards amid tremendous applause. A 
number of workmen had torn young trees up by the roots, 
and ran with them like savages beside the carriage, which 
every instant seemed in danger of being overturned by the 
disorderly rabble. It is said that two shots were fired at 
the cairage. I can, however, find no circumstantial account 
of this singular incident. 

Many persons whom I have interrogated concerning the 
actual outbreak assert that the bloody conflict began close 
to the Austerlitz Bridge over the body of the dead hero; for 
one section of the patriots wished to carry the coffin to the 
Pantheon, another to accompany it as far as the next village; 
both intentions were promptly opposed by the municipal 
guards and the sergeants of police. Therefore this strife, 
fought with bitter fury, as in olden days before the gate of 
Troy over the body of Patroclus. Much blood was spilt in 
the Place de la Bastille. Towards half-past six the fighting 
had spread to the Porte St. Denis, where the people had 
thrown up barricades. Many important posts were carried; 

1 9 o HEINE. 

the National Guards, who had occupied them defended them- 
selves feebly, and ultimately gave up their arms. Thus the 
people gained numerous weapons. The Place de Notre 
Dame des Victoires I found given over to tumultuous 
righting; the " Patriots " had placed three posts at the 
Bank. When I wandered towards the Boulevards I noticed 
that all the shops were closed, I saw few people, and almost 
no women, who, even in serious riots, are wont fearlessly 
to gratify their desire for a spectacle. Every one looked 
very serious. Foot soldiers and cuirassiers passed here and 
there; ordnance officers with anxious faces galloped by; 
in the distance, shots and powder smoke. The weather 
was no longer lowering, and towards evening it cleared. 

Matters looked serious for the Government when the 
rumour spread that the National Guard had declared itself 
on the side of the people. The mistake arose through 
several patriots having yesterday worn the uniform of 
the National Guards; the National Guards, in fact, had a 
moment's indecision as to whom they should support. In 
all probability the women, during last night, demonstrated 
to their husbands that only that party should be supported 
which offered most guarantee for life and property; that 
Louis Philippe answered this requirement better than 
the Republicans, who were very poor and usually very 
hurtful to commerce and industry. Thus, to-day, the 
National Guard is wholly against the Republicans; the 
matter is decided. "The blow has miscarried," the 
people say. Troops of the line arrive in Paris from all 

A number of cannons stand loaded on the Place de la 
Concorde, even on the other side of the Tuileries, also in 
the Place de la Carousel. 

The Citizen-King is surrounded by citizen cannons ; 


"where could he fare better than in the bosom of his 
family ? " 

It is now four o'clock, and the rain falls heavily. This is 
very unfavourable for the "patriots," who, for the most part, 
have barricaded themselves in the Quartier St. Martin, and 
receive but few reinforcements. They are hemmed in on 
all sides, and at this very moment I hear a loud cannonade. 
The rumour runs that two hours ago the insurgents still 
held great hopes of victory, but now there is nothing left 
them but to die heroically. There are many who will. As 
I live near to the Porte St. Denis, I have passed a sleepless 
night, the firing having continued almost unbrokenly. The 
thunder of the cannon awakes the most mournful echo 
in my heart. 

It is a miserable occurrence which will have miserable 

PARIS, June 1th, 

As I went yesterday to throw my letter into the central 
post-box, I found the whole group of speculators congre- 
gated under the colonnade on the broad steps of the Bourse. 
The news had at that moment arrived that the defeat of the 
" Patriots " was a certainty, and the sweetest satisfaction 
dawned in every face ; it might be said that the whole 
Bourse smiled. At the sound of the cannons the stocks 
rose ten sous. The firing went on till five o'clock ; at six 
o'clock the whole revolutionary attempt was suppressed. 
The journals have therefore been able to-day to publish just 
as much information as they deem advisable. The Constitu- 
tional and the Journal des Debats seem to give a sufficiently 
correct account of the main events. Only the colour and 
the proportions are false. I have just come from the theatre 

192 HEINE. 

of yesterday's combat, and I am convinced that it would be 
extremely difficult to ascertain the whole truth. This 
spot is, in fact, one of the largest and most populous 
streets of Paris, the Rue St. Martin, which begins at the 
gate of the same name on the Boulevard and continues to 
the Seine at the bridge of Notre Dame. At both ends of 
the street, I heard the number of the " Patriots," or as they 
are to-day called " the rebels," who fought there given as 
five hundred and as one thousand men ; towards the centre 
of the street the number decreased, and finished by being 
as low as fifty. What is truth ? asked Pontius Pilate. 

The number of the troops of the line is more easily ascer- 
tained. There is stated to have been (according to the 
Journal des Dkbats) 40,000 fighting men yesterday in Paris. 
Add to this at least 20,000 National Guards. The handful 
of insurgents, therefore, was pitted against 60,000 men. 
The recognition of the heroic bravery of these audacious 
madmen is unanimous. They shouted continuously, " Vive 
la Republique," a cry that found no echo in the hearts of 
the people. Had they, instead, called out " Vive Napoleon," 
then, according to the assertions of all the groups of people 
to-day, the troops would with difficulty have been induced 
to fire upon them : and the great mass of workmen would 
have gone to their aid. But they disdained the lie. They 
were the purest, if not the cleverest, friends of Liberty. And 
yet, to-day, people are idiots enough to accuse them of an 
understanding with the " Carlists." Of a truth, they who die 
so heroically for the sacred error of their hearts, for the 
beautiful illusion of an ideal future, do not ally themselves 
with the cowardly scum which the past has bequeathed to 
us under the name of "Carlist." I am, by God, no Re- 
publican ; I know that if the Republicans gained the day 
they would cut my throat, because I do not admire 


exactly what they admire, yet to-day my eyes filled with 
tears when I trod upon those spots still red with their blood. 
I would rather that I, and all my fellow-moderates, had died 
in the place of those Republicans. 

The National Guards rejoice greatly over their victory. 
In their intoxication they nearly sent an unfriendly ball into 
my body, although I am one of their party; that is to say, 
they heroically fired on whomsoever approached too near 
to their posts. ... It was a rainy, starless, sinister evening. 
There was scant light in the streets, because nearly all the 
shops remained shut, as they had been throughout the day. 
To-day, there is everywhere the usual bright animation; so 
much so that one would think nothing had happened. 
Even in the Rue St. Martin the shops are all open. Al- 
though it is very difficult to pass along on account of the 
torn-up pavements and the remains of barricades, yet an 
immense mass of people streamed from curiosity through 
that very long and rather narrow street, with its unusually high 
houses. The shock of the cannons has broken all the 
window-panes, and everywhere can be seen fresh marks of 
balls, for the guns were fired from both ends of the street 
until the Republicans found themselves in a cul-de-sac either 
way. I was told yesterday that they were finally hemmed in 
on all sides in the Church of St. Mery. But this assertion I 
heard contradicted at the place itself. Their head-quarters 
appears to have been a projecting house called the Cafe 
Leclerc, situated at the angle of the little street St. Me>y. 
Here was where they made their most sustained resistance, 
and here was their last stand. They asked no quarter, and 
most of them were bayoneted. Here fell the students of 
the Alfort School. Here ran the most ardent blood in 
France. It is a thorough mistake to suppose that the Re- 
publicans are composed merely of young firebrands. Many 

194 HETNE. 

elderly people fought with them. A young woman to whom 
I spoke near the church of St. Mery lamented the death of 
her grandfather. 

" Till then we had lived so contentedly; but when he saw 
the red flag, and heard the cry of ' Vive la Rdpublique,' he 
ran with an old pike among the young people and died with 
them." Poor old grey head ! He heard the cow-bells of 
La Montague, the memory of his first love of Liberty 
reawoke, and he wanted once again to dream the dream of 
his youth ! Soft be his sleep ! 

It is easy to foresee the consequences of this revolution. 
Over a thousand men are arrested, and among them, it is 
said, one deputy, Gamier Pages. The Liberal journals are 
suppressed. Trade is jubilant, egoism is rampant, and 
many of the best men must wear mourning. The theory 
of intimidation will claim yet more victims. Already the 
National Guard trembles at its own strength; heroes are 
afraid when they look at themselves in the glass. The 
king, the great, strong, and powerful Louis Philippe, will 
distribute many crosses of honour. Paid wits will revile 
the Friends of Liberty even in their graves, whom they now 
call the enemies of public peace, murderers, etc., etc. This 
morning, in the Place de la Vendome, a tailor who ventured 
to refer to the good intentions of the Republicans was well 
cudgelled by a strong woman, probably his own wife. This 
is the counter-revolution. 

PARIS, June 8/A. 

IT appears that it was not a wholly red flag, but a red, gold, 
and black flag, which Lafayette crowned with immortelles 
at Lemarque's funeral. This already half-mythical banner 


seems to have been mistaken by many for a Republican flag. 
Ah, I knew it very well; I thought at once, "Great heavens ! 
they are the colours of our Burschenschaft ! to-day a mis- 
fortune or a blunder will happen ! " Alas ! both happened. 
When, at the commencement of hostilities, the dragoons 
sprang upon the Germans who followed the flag, these took 
refuge behind the great wooden beams of a carpenter's yard. 
Later they retired to the Jardin des Plantes, and the flag, 
though in a sorry plight, was saved. 

I have conscientiously told the Frenchmen who have 
asked me concerning the signification of this red-black- 
golden flag, that the Emperor Barbarossa, who for several 
centuries has lived at Kyffhauser, has sent us this banner 
as a sign that the old dream of a great empire still exists, 
and that he himself will come again with sword and sceptre. 
For myself, I do not believe it will happen so soon; too 
many black ravens still flutter around the mountain. 

Here in Paris affairs are in strange suspense; bayonets 
and watchful military faces are in all the streets. At first I 
took the announcement of a State of Siege in Paris to be an 
unimportant scare; moreover, it was rumoured that any such 
condition would be of brief duration. But when yesterday 
I saw cannon after cannon pass along the Rue de Richelieu, 
I observed that the defeat of the Republicans might be 
made use of to suppress other opponents of the Govern- 
ment namely, the journalists. It is now a question 
whether "good-will" is backed by requisite force. The 
astounding victory of the National Guards who took part 
in the violent measures against the Republicans is being 
exploited just now, and Louis Philippe dispenses as urbanely 
as before the hand-shake of comradeship. As the Carlists 
are hated and the Republicans disapproved of, the people 
uphold the king as the preserver of order; he, therefore, is 

196 HEINE. 

as popular as necessity itself. Yes, I heard " Long live the 
King ! " shouted, when the king rode down the Boulevards ; 
but I also saw a tall figure, not far from the Faubourg 
Montmartre, go boldly towards him, crying out, "Down 
with Louis Philippe ! " Several riders in the king's suite 
jumped instantly from their horses, seized the protestor, 
and dragged him away with them. 

I have never seen Paris so crammed as yesterday evening. 
In spite of the bad weather, crowds filled the public places. 
In the garden of the Palais-Royal were groups of people 
discussing politics; but they spoke softly, very softly, in 
fact; for might one not suddenly be dragged before a 
Council of War, and see oneself shot within twenty-four 
hours ! I begin to yearn for the slow-going jurisdiction of 
my Germany. The lawless condition of the moment is 
odious; it is a worse evil than cholera. Just as formerly, 
when the cholera raged here, one's alarm was increased 
by an exaggerated death-roll, so now one is alarmed when 
one hears of the enormous number of arrests, of the secret 
fusillades, of the thousand dark rumours which, as was 
the case yesterday afternoon, circulate in the dark. To-day, 
in the daylight, there is more reassurance. It is admitted 
that the alarm was exaggerated yesterday, and one is more 
annoyed than frightened. A juste-milieu terror now reigns ! 

The journals are moderate in their protestations, yet in 
nowise dejected. The National and the Temps speak fear- 
lessly, as beseems free men. I have nothing newer to tell 
you than is to be found in to-day's papers. Every one is 
tranquil, and matters are allowed tranquilly to take their 
course. The Government is perhaps amazed at the enor- 
mous power it sees in its own hands. It has raised itself 
above law a dangerous situation; for it is said with good 
reason, "He who is above the law is beyond the pale 


of the law." The reason wherewith many true friends 
of Liberty condone present violent measures is that demo- 
cratic royalty must of necessity strengthen itself from within 
in order afterwards to act more powerfully from without. 

PARIS, June loth. 

YESTERDAY Paris -was quiet. The rumour, which even 
yesterday evening the most trustworthy people were spread- 
ing abroad of numerous fusillades, has been satisfactorily 
contradicted by those who stand nearest the Government. 
A great number of arrests, however, are admitted. Of this 
any one could convince himself with his own eyes; yester- 
day, and still more the day before yesterday, everywhere 
one saw persons under arrest, conducted along by the 
communal guard or the soldiers of the line. At times it 
was like a procession; men, young and old, in shabby 
garments, accompanied by lamenting relatives. It is said 
that each one will be at once taken before a Council of War 
and shot within four-and-twenty hours at Vincennes. 

In all directions groups of men stood before the houses 
that had been searched. This was especially the case in 
the streets which had been the scene of the fight. In 
many of the houses the refugees, when they realised that 
their cause was desperate, had hidden themselves until 
betrayed by some traitor. The people congregated thickly 
along the quays, talking and looking in particular towards 
the Rue St. Martin, which was constantly filled with curious 
folk, and around the Palais de Justice, whither so many 
prisoners were being conducted. There was a crowd round 
the Morgue also to see the dead bodies exposed ; the most 
heart-rending scenes of recognition took place there. The 

198 HEINE. 

town presented the most lugubrious aspect; everywhere 
groups of people with misery on their faces, patrols of 
soldiers, and funeral processions of National Guards who had 
fallen in the fray. 

Society, since yesterday, has not disquieted itself in the 
slightest ; it knows its people, it knows that the juste-milieu 
itself feels very uncomfortable in the plenitude of its present 
power. It holds the great sword of Justice, but it lacks the 
strong hand wherewith to wield it. At the least stroke it 
fears to wound itself. Intoxicated with the victory, which 
in the first place was due to Marshal Soult, it allowed itself 
to be dragged into a military measure proposed probably by 
that old soldier, who is still imbued with the desire of the 
Empire. This man is now, in fact, at the head of the 
ministerial councils, and his colleagues and others of the 
juste-milieu fear that he may attain to the presidentship so 
ardently wished for by him. They are making an effort 
gently to retrace their steps, and to extricate themselves 
from an attitude of heroism: to that end all the mild 
definitions tend that are to-day given of the ordinance for 
the present State of Siege. It is easy to see the alarm of 
\\iQJuste-ntilieu at its own power, which it holds convulsively 
in its hands, and will perhaps not abandon till pardon is 
asked of it. In its desperation it will perhaps sacrifice a 
few insignificant heads; it will perhaps feign the most 
ludicrous anger in order to alarm its enemies; it will 
commit ghastly stupidities; it will 

But it is impossible to foresee all that fear may do when 
it is barricaded in the heart of the powerful, and sees itself 
hemmed round with mockery and death. The acts of a 
coward, like those of a genius, lie outside of all reckoning. 
In any case, the higher public here feels that the extra-legal 
condition in which they stand is only a formula. 


Whenever laws live in the consciousness of a people, the 
Government cannot destroy them by a sudden ordinance. 
Here, de facto, there is greater security for life and property 
than elsewhere in Europe, with the exception of England 
and Holland. Despite this institution of military tribunals, 
the liberty of the press still actually exists here, and 
journalists discuss government procedure more freely than 
in many countries on the continent where the liberty of the 
press is sanctioned on paper. 

The post to-day (Sunday) goes at midday, therefore I 
can tell you nothing of to-day's events ! I must refer 
you to the papers. Their tone is more portentous than 
the things they say. Moreover, they are without a doubt 
again filled with lies. Since early morning there has been a 
deafening beat of drums. It is the day of the great Review. 
My servant tells me that the Boulevards, and in particular 
the whole stretch, from the Barriere du Trone as far as 
the Barriere de 1'Etoile, is covered with foot soldiers and 
National Guards. Louis Philippe, the father of the country, 
the conqueror of the Catilines of the 5th June, the Cicero 
on horseback, the enemy of the guillotine and paper money, 
the protector of lives and of shops, the citizen-king, will in 
a few hours show himself to his people. A great cheer will 
greet him; he will be much touched; he will shake many 
hands, and the police will not fail to take special measures 
of security and for an extra show of enthusiasm. 

PARIS, June nth. 
SPLENDID weather favoured yesterday's Review. 

On the Boulevards, in front of the Barriere de 1'Etoile, 
there were perhaps 50,000 troops of the line and National 
Guards; while an innumerable mass of spectators, on foot or 

200 HEINE. 

at the windows, awaited with curiosity to see how the king 
would look and how he would be received after such extra- 
ordinary events. Towards one o'clock his Majesty, with 
his staff-general, drew near the Porte St. Denis, where I had 
placed myself on an over-turned milestone in order better to 
observe. The king did not ride in the middle, but at the 
right side, where the National Guards were ranged, and all 
along the route he bent sideways from his horse in order 
everywhere to press the hands of the National Guards. 
When he returned, two hours later, he rode on the left side, 
where he continued the manoeuvre. I should not be sur- 
prised if, in consequence of this twisted posture, he suffers 
great pains in his chest or has dislocated his ribs. The extra- 
ordinary patience of the king is incomprehensible. He had, 
moreover, to smile continuously. But under the fat friend- 
liness of that face there lay, I thought, much sadness and 
care. The sight of the man filled me with deep pity. He 
is greatly changed since I saw him this winter at a ball at 
the Tuileries. The flesh of his face, then red and full, was 
yesterday slack and yellow; his black whiskers have turned 
grey, so that it looks as though even his cheeks were 
tremulous at present or imminent blows of fortune; at 
all events it is a sign of worry that he has not thought of 
dyeing his whiskers black. The three-cornered hat thrust 
low upon his forehead gave him an additional look of un- 
happiness. With his eyes he seemed to beg both for good- 
will and for pardon. Of a truth it was not difficult to per- 
ceive that there was the man who had put us all into a 
state of siege. Not the slightest sign of ill-will was shown 
him, and I must admit that great cheering met him every- 
where; they, especially, whose hand he had shaken, shouted 
frantic acclamations after him, and thousands of women's 
voices yelled a repeated "Vive le roi." 

JUNE DA YS. 201 

I saw one old woman poke her husband in the ribs 
because he had not shouted loud enough. A feeling of 
bitterness seized me when I thought that these people 
who now cheered this poor hand-shaking Louis Philippe, 
are the same French people who so often saw Napoleon 
Buonaparte ride past with his marble Caesar face, his 
immovable eyes, and " inaccessible " hands. 

After Louis Philippe had held the Review, or, so to say, 
had felt the pulse of the army, in order to convince him- 
self that it really exists, the military tumult lasted several 
hours longer. The different corps shouted a continual 
exchange of compliments as they marched past one another. 
" Long live the Line ! " from the National Guard was 
answered by " Long live the National Guard ! " They 
fraternised. Here and there National Guards and soldiers 
of the line were seen linked symbolically arm in arm; and, 
as a similar symbolical act, they divided between them their 
sausages, bread, and wine. There was not the slightest 

I must, however, state that the most frequent cry was that 
of " Vive la Liberte " ; and when one heard these words 
shouted from the full breasts of armed men, one felt 
cheered and reassured in spite of the State of Siege and of 
military tribunals. That is it exactly; Louis Philippe will 
never willingly oppose public opinion. He will always 
know how to spy out its most urgent requirements and to 
act accordingly. That is the important meaning of 
yesterday's Review. Louis Philippe felt the need of 
seeing the people en masse, to convince himself that his 
cannon-shots and ordinances had not been taken in bad 
part; that he was not looked upon as a wicked, violent 
king; that, at all events, no misunderstanding existed be- 
tween them. But the people also, on their side, wished to 

202 HEINE. 

observe their Louis Philippe attentively, to assure them- 
selves that he is still the submissive courtier of their 
sovereign will, that he still remains obedient and devoted 
to them. Thus it may well be said that the people have 
passed the king in review, and have expressed their supreme 
satisfaction with his manoeuvres. 

PARIS, June izth. 

THE great Review was the general topic of conversation 
yesterday. The moderates see therein a satisfactory under- 
standing between the king and the citizens. Many discreet 
persons, nevertheless, do not trust themselves to this charm- 
ing bond; they predict a tussle between the king and the 
citizens, and this may easily take place the moment the 
interests of the throne clash with those of the shop. 
To-day, it is true, they reciprocally support one another; 
king and burgher are mutually satisfied. According to 
what I am told, the Place de la Vendome was yesterday 
the spot at which this edifying unison could best be 
observed. The king was exhilarated by the cheering with 
which he was received on the Boulevards; and when the 
ranks of the National Guard denied before him, one or two 
of them stepped unceremoniously from the ranks, stretched 
out a hand to him and said a friendly word, told him 
briefly their opinion of the recent events, or declared to 
him without circumlocution that they would support him 
as long as he did not misuse his power. Louis Philippe 
protested by all that is holy that this would never happen, 
that he wished merely to suppress the fanatically turbulent 
so that he may the more powerfully defend French Liberty 
and Equality: many place confidence in his words. 

JUNE DA VS. 203 

Impartiality compels me to make mention of these circum- 
stances. Yes, I confess, my mistrustful heart was thereby 
somewhat mollified. 

The opposition journals seem almost desirous of wholly 
ignoring the proceedings of the day before yesterday. 
Altogether their tone is very remarkable. It is the kind 
of reticence that usually precedes a terrible explosion. It 
seems as though they wish merely to await the repeal of 
the ordinance for the State of Siege. The tone of each 
journal betrays to what degree it was compromised in the 
recent events. The Tribune has to be completely silent, 
because thus it has committed itself more than any other. 
The National is in the same plight, but not to so great 
a degree; it may, therefore, speak at greater length and 
more freely. The Temps, whose voice was raised the 
loudest and most vigorously against the ordinance of the 
State of Siege, stands by no means badly with some of 
the ring-leaders of the juste-milieu, and is better protected 
than Sarrut and Carrel; but we will not allow ourselves 
on this account to refrain from lauding M. Coste, as one 
of the best citizens of France, because of the manly and 
noble words spoken aloud by him in a most difficult 
moment against the illegality and arbitrariness of the 

M. Sarrut is under arrest; everywhere M. Carrel is 
sought for. People are irritated chiefly against Carrel, 
and it is possible that it is he who was especially thought 
of when the exceptional tribunals were instituted. Yes, 
if it be true, as it is now pretended, that M. Thiers was 
the author of this stroke of genius, he must certainly have 
had his quondam colleague Carrel in his mind, for it is 
he whom he has most cause to fear. He knows exactly 
his own power, he knows that each party, when victorious, 

204 HEINE. 

punishes its renegades first of all. Little Thiers' head, 
already full of the hubbub of the Marseillaise caldrons 
and the laudatory verses of Viennet, must certainly have 
been completely deafened when the thunder of the cannons 
and of the name of Carrel reached his ears. It is, in fact, 
universally believed that M. Carrel was at the head of the 
popular movement of the 5th June. That great building 
in the Rue du Croissant, which contains the printing-press 
and offices of the National, was considered to be his head- 
quarters; and nearly two thousand people, among whom 
were several men of importance, repaired thither to offer 
him the assistance of themselves and of their adherents. 
It is, however, quite certain that Carrel declined all these 
offers, and that he predicted the failure of the projected 
revolution because it was not properly prepared; because 
the insurgents had not assured themselves of the sympathy 
of the people ; because they were in want of the necessary 
resources; even because they did not know influential 
personages, etc. As a matter of fact, never was a 
rising worse organised; to this day no one knows how 
it arose and how it was formed. One of the combatants 
in the Rue St. Martin declares that when the Republicans 
found themselves shut in there, and looked one another in 
the face, not one recognised the other; chance alone had 
brought together all these men, complete strangers to one 

They, nevertheless, soon learned to know each other 
and to fight together, and most of them died like hearty, 
faithful brothers in arms. In like manner, to this hour, 
no one can exactly ascertain how matters went at the 
home-taking of Lafayette. A well-informed man assured 
me yesterday that the Government, mistrusting the funeral 
cortege of Lamarque, held some dragoons in reserve, and 

JUNE DA VS. 205 

also had given the police orders, in case of any insurrec- 
tionary outbreak, at once to seize hold of Lafayette so 
that he should not fall into the hands of the insurgents 
and strengthen them through the authority of his name. 

Therefore, when the first shots were fired, some agents of 
police, disguised as workmen, forcibly shoved poor Lafayette 
into a carriage, while other police agents, similarly disguised, 
harnessed themselves in the shafts, and with loud cries of 
" Vive Lafayette ! " carried him off in triumph. 

When the Republicans' version now is heard, they affirm 
that if, on June 5th, the misfortune of their friends harmed 
them greatly, the foolishness of their enemies on the day 
following, that is to say, the ordinance for placing Paris in a 
state of siege, was so much the more useful to them. They 
pretend that the 5th and 6th June should be regarded as 
outpost skirmishes, that not one of the notabilities of the 
Republican party took part in it, and that the blood shed has 
gained for them many new auxiliaries. What I have said 
above seems in some degree to confirm this statement. The 
party that represents the National^ and is accused by the 
perfidious Gazette de France as Republican doctrinaires, took 
no share in these disturbances; neither did the chiefs of the 
party of the Tribune, the Montagnards, mix themselves in 
the matter. 

PARIS, June i"j/h. 

PRESUMABLY, the most singular ideas of our present situa- 
tion are entertained by outsiders and foreigners, when they 
consider the latest events of the still unraised State of Siege, 
and the violent antagonism between the parties. Yet 
here, at this moment, we see so little change, that it is 

ao6 HEINE. 

precisely the absence of any special manifestation which 
astonishes us the most. This remark is the chief item I 
have to impart to you, but, negative as my letter is, it will 
certainly serve to dissipate many erroneous suppositions. 

All is quite quiet here. The military tribunals issue their 
instructions with a grim air. People laugh, mock, and 
make jokes over the State of Siege, over the bravery of the 
National Guards, over the wisdom of the Government. 

What I foresaw is now happening; the juste-milieu does 
not know what to do in order to extricate itself with 
heroism ; the beleaguered, with malicious pleasure, watch 
this desperate condition of the besiegers. The latter wish 
to appear as terrible as possible: they rummage in the 
archives of barbaric times in order to resuscitate execrable 
laws, and they succeed only in making themselves ridicu- 
lous. They wish to be tyrants, whereas nature has designed 
them for quite other things. 

The groups of well-dressed people, who promenade in the 
gardens of the Palais-Royal, the Tuileries, and the Luxem- 
bourg, who breathe the quiet summer coolness, watch the 
idyllic play of the little children, or enjoy some peaceful 
leisure, these groups, without knowing it, form the sharpest 
satire upon the existing State of Siege. 

In order that the public may believe in it to some extent 
a house-to-house search is everywhere being made with the 
greatest seriousness ; sick people are disturbed in their 
beds, everything is turned topsy-turvy to discover a hidden 
gun or a powder flask. Unfortunate strangers are the 
most incommoded, for, on account of the State of Siege, 
they have to present themselves at the Prefecture of the 
Police to obtain new permits of residence. There they must 
submit, pro forma, to all kinds of interrogations. Many 
provincial French, especially students, are obliged by the 

JUNE DA VS. 207 

police to sign an agreement that, during their sojourn in 
Paris, they will undertake nothing against the Government 
of Louis Philippe. Many have preferred to quit the town, 
rather than give their signature. Others signed after having 
ohtained permission to add that they were Republicans in 
opinion. The doctrinaires have undoubtedly introduced 
these precautionary measures, after the pattern of the 
German universities. 

The most heterogeneous persons are from time to time 
arrested, and upon the most heterogeneous pretexts : some 
for having taken part in the Republican revolt, others 
on account of a newly-discovered Buonapartist conspiracy. 
Yesterday, three Carlist peers were arrested; among them 
Don Chateaubriand, the knight of the sad figure, the best 
writer and the greatest fool in France. The prisons are 
overflowing. In Sainte-Pelagie alone there are over six 
hundred prisoners for political causes. From one of my 
friends, who is there for debt and is writing a great work 
to prove that Sainte-Pelagie was founded by Pelagists, I 
received a letter yesterday, wherein he laments grievously 
over the noise which surrounds him and disturbs his learned 
researches. The greatest audacity reigns among the prisoners 
of Sainte-Pelagie. They have drawn on the walls of the 
court a huge pear with an axe above it. 

Talking of the pear I must not omit to observe that the 
print-shops have taken not the slightest notice of the State 
of Siege. The pear, and again the pear, is repeated in every 
caricature. The most striking of these is the representation 
of the Place de la Concorde with the monument that is 
dedicated to the Charter; on this monument, which is in the 
form of an altar, lies an enormous pear with the features 
of the king. In the long run such things tire and sicken 
the soul of a German. These eternal printed and painted 

zo8 HEINE. 

mockeries are calculated rather to excite a certain sympathy 
for Louis Philippe. He is truly to be pitied now more 
than ever. Good and gentle by nature, he is condemned 
by military tribunals to be severe. Moreover, he feels that 
executions will neither help nor hinder; especially as the 
cholera, a few weeks ago, executed more than thirty-five 
thousand persons with the most horrible tortures. Cruelties 
of governors are more readily pardoned than the violation 
of traditional rights, a violation involved in the reactionary 
essence of a declaration of siege. This is why the threat of 
military tribunal severity inspires the Republicans with so 
superior a tone, whereas now their adversaries appear so 


THE exhaustion which usually follows upon any great 
excitement is very noticeable to-day. Everywhere 
grey ill-humour, peevishness, fatigue ; mouths that gape 
open showing their teeth, or that yawn equally help- 
lessly. The decision of the Court of Appeal has put 
an end to our singular State of Siege, almost after the 
manner of a comedy. There has been so much laughter 
over this unforeseen catastrophe that the people have 
almost pardoned the Government for their miscalculated 
coup d'etat. With what glee at the street corners we 
read M. de Montalivet's pronunciamento, in which he, as 
it were, thanks the Parisians for having taken so little notice 
of the State of Siege, and, moreover, for not having allowed 
themselves to be disturbed in their amusements ! 

I do not believe that Beaumarchais could have written 
this proclamation better. Really, the present Government 
does much for the enjoyment of the people ! 


At the same time the French are amusing themselves 
with a singular pastime. It consists of a Chinese puzzle, 
whose peculiarity is that a determined-upon figure must be 
put together by means of a few oblique and angular pieces 
of wood. The occupation in Parisian salons is to piece 
together a new ministry in accordance with the rules of 
this game. 

No idea can be given of the angular and oblique person- 
ages who find themselves grouped together without any of 
these wooden combinations resolving in one honest collec- 
tive figure. The greatest number of attempts are made 
with Talleyrand and Dupin the elder. Concerning the 
first-named, the daily papers have not failed to say every 
possible untruth. It was a cardinal mistake to attach so 
much importance to his forming one of the new Ministry. 

This man is old and worn, and came here on perhaps 
purely personal concerns. He is reported to be ill and 
weak, precisely because he constantly reiterates that he has 
never felt so well and hearty as now. He travels now to 
the baths merely to confirm his health and robustness. 
With the wilfulness of a child who does not yet know the bad 
side of the world, people listen to this grey-haired man, who 
has scarcely yet learned to know the good side, and jokes 
lightly over the complications and threatening difficulties 
of the day. With this well-known manner of taking the 
gravest matters lightly, he makes himself appear the em- 
bodiment of trustworthiness and infallibility; he is thus, to a 
certain extent, the Pope of those unbelievers whose luckless 
church have faith neither in the Holy Spirit of the people, 
nor in the incarnation of the divine Word. 

Over Dupin's checks concerning the choice of ministers, 
the papers have said many extraordinary, but always un- 
founded, things. It is true that he has had some rather 

2io HEINE. 

stiff consultations with the king, and that one day they 
separated with reciprocal ill-feeling. It is also true that 
Lord Granville was the cause. The following is the 
account of the matter: 

M. Dupin had previously passed his word to Louis 
Philippe that as soon as the king should desire it he would 
accept the presidency of the Council. Lord Granville, to 
whom it was displeasing to see so bourgeois a man at the 
head of the Government, and, in the spirit of his caste, 
desired a more socially distinguished Prime Minister, must 
have expressed to Louis Philippe some serious doubts 
concerning the capacity of M. Dupin. When the king 
recounted these remarks to M. Dupin, the latter became so 
irate, and gave vent to such unseemly expressions, that a 
rupture ensued between the king and himself. 

A number of petty intrigues are, moreover, interwoven 
with this event. Had Dupin become President of the 
Council, most of the members of the then existing ministry 
would have retired. A number of the other high officials 
would have been dismissed. The ancient editor of the 
National^ M. Thiers, would of necessity have taken another 
post, whereas the present editor of the Temps, M. Costa, 
would have obtained the important position previously 
occupied by the vanished M. Kessnen namely, of chief 
administrator of the State-treasury. 

Meanwhile the inherent power of events will resolve many 
disclosures; as soon as the Chamber recommences its 
debates, M. Dupin is the only available minister for the 
juste-milieu. For he alone is able to offer resistance to the 
opposition in parliament, and, undoubtedly, the Government 
itself will be sufficiently called to account. 

Thus far Louis Philippe still continues to be his own 
Prime Minister. This is already proved by the fact that all 


government acts are ascribed to him, and not to M. Mont- 
alivet, of whom almost nothing is heard, and who is not 
even hated. The change that seems to have taken place in 
the king's views since the revolt of the 5th and 6th June is 
very remarkable. He now considers himself very strong; 
lie is convinced he can depend unreservedly on the great 
mass of the nation; he believes himself to be the necessary 
man to whom the nation will unconditionally attach itself 
in event of foreign aggression; and he seems, thereupon, to 
feel less repugnance for war than formerly. The patriot party 
are, as a fact, in the minority; they mistrust him, and fear, 
with reason, that he is less hostile to foreign enemies than 
to those at home. The former threaten his crown only, the 
latter threaten his life. The king knows well that it is so. 
Indeed, when one reflects that Louis Philippe is convinced 
to the depths of his soul of the sanguinary malevolence of 
his enemies, one cannot be other than astonished at his 
moderation. Through the declaration of the State of Siege 
he allowed himself to be guilty of an unjustifiable illegality; 
but he cannot be accused of having unworthily abused 
his power. He, on the contrary, generously spared those 
who had personally insulted him, while he sought only to 
repress or rather to disarm those who were inimical to his 
government. In spite of all the ill-will that may be cherished 
against Louis Philippe the king, I am thoroughly convinced 
that Louis Philippe the man is wide-minded and great- 
hearted to an unusual degree. His master-passion appears 
to be architecture. I was at the Tuileries yesterday: every- 
where building is going on, above and below ground; room 
walls are being torn down, great cellars are being dug out, 
and there is a constant sound of slip-slap. The king, who 
resides with his whole family at St. Cloud, comes daily to 
Paris, and inspects first of all the progress of the building in 

212 HEINE. 

the Tuileries. This palace now stands quite empty; only 
the ministerial councils are held therein. Oh, if old blood- 
stains could speak, as in nursery tales, good advice might 
sometimes be audible there; for in yonder rooms of that 
tragic house much eloquent blood has flowed. 

PARIS, July \yh. 

THE 1 4th of June passed tranquilly, without any symptoms 
of the expected riot, announced by the police. It was, 
however, an excessively hot day ; so suffocating an atmo- 
sphere lay over the whole of Paris, that the pronunciamento 
did not attract the usual number of curious folk to the 
habitual theatre of such riots. Only on that Place where 
the Revolution was inaugurated, where once the Bastille 
was destroyed, groups of men gathered, loitering there 
quietly in the grilling midday sun, and allowing themselves 
more or less out of patriotism to be roasted. It was 
rumoured some days ago that on the i4th of July the old 
stormers of the Bastille, who are still in life and in receipt 
of a pension, should be publicly crowned with laurels on 
that spot A principal role in this fete was proposed for 

This project, however, must have been abandoned after 
the events of June 5th and 6th; moreover, Lafayette does 
not seem to wish for a new triumphal procession this 

In the groups of men in the Place de la Bastille there 
were possibly more police than ordinary men ; for malicious, 
bitter remarks were spoken, such as only disguised detec- 
tives could venture to utter. Louis Philippe, they said, is 
a traitor; the national guards are traitors; the deputies 


are traitors ; the July sun alone has honourable intentions. 
And it, indeed, did its duty; it poured its glowing rays 
upon us almost beyond endurance. For my own part 
I made the reflection in this excessive heat, that the 
Bastille must have been a very cool building, and must 
certainly have afforded a very grateful shade in summer. 
When it was destroyed five persons sat imprisoned therein. 
Now, however, there are ten State prisons, and St. Pelagic 
alone contains over six hundred State prisoners. St. Pelagic 
must be very unhealthy, and is very restricted in space. 
Otherwise it is jolly enough there : Republicans and 
Carlisls, it is true, hold themselves apart from one another, 
but they continually exchange witty passages, and laugh 
and joke together. The Republicans wear red Jacobin caps, 
the Carlists wear green caps with a white lily for their badge. 
The one party shouts continually " Vive la Republique ! " 
the other shouts " Vive Henri ! " The applause is unan- 
imous if, in wilder fury, some one levels insults at Louis 
Philippe, and this can happen with impunity, inasmuch as 
no prisoner in St. Pelagic can be either arrested or put in 
solitary confinement. Most of the hot-heads, who previously 
stirred up tumult on the slightest pretext, are now there 
under lock and key, and that is why the police latterly 
have not succeeded in organising any riot of a productive 
sort. The Republicans are for the moment very careful 
not to attempt any violence. Moreover, they have no 
weapons; the disarming has been carried out very 

To-day is the name-day of the young Henri, and some 
Carlist excesses are anticipated. A proclamation in his 
favour was spread about yesterday evening by rag-pickers 
and disguised priests. Therein it was set forth that he 
would ensure the happiness of France, and preserve the 

214 HEINE. 

country from foreign invasion. Next year he will be of 
age, for French kings attain their majority at the age of 
thirteen, and are then supposed to have acquired their 
highest attainments. 

For the first time the young Henri is represented with 
sceptre and crown, in that proclamation ; hitherto he has 
been depicted in the dress of a pilgrim, or of a Scottish 
highlander, climbing crags, or putting his purse into the 
hand of a poor beggar woman, etc. Nothing redoubtable 
is expected from these miserable efforts. The Carlists are 
also in a very disheartened humour. The mad temerity of 
the Duchesse de Berry had done them much harm. In vain 
did the chief of the Parisian Carlists despatch M. Berryer to 
the Duchess, in order to facilitate her return to Holyrood. 
In vain has Louis Philippe made the same essay by means 
of his agents. In vain the foreign ambassadors conjured 
her in the name of God to relinquish her enterprise for 
the moment. Neither reasons, menaces, nor prayers could 
prevail upon that headstrong woman to depart. She is 
still in the Vendee. Although wholly without resources, 
without support from either side, she will not yield. 

The key to the riddle is this, that stupid or cunning 
priests have made a tool of her fanatical superstition, and 
have persuaded her that if she die for her child she will 
work a benediction on him. Consequently, she courts death 
with the religious .ardour of a martyr and the passionate 
love of a mother. 

If no agitation is visible in public places, there is 
so much the more disquietude observable in society. 
Primarily it is the German affairs, the ordinances of the 
Diet, which occupy all minds. The most aggravating 
criticisms upon Germany are to be heard. The French in 
their volatility erroneously suppose that our princes oppress 


liberty; they do not perceive that there is question only 
of putting an end to the anarchy that reigns among German 
Liberals, and of advancing the unity and welfare of the 
German people. As early as the 2nd June the Temps had 
given a digest of the six articles of the decrees of the Diet. 
And previously to that a well-known pietist went about 
carrying extracts from these decrees and therewith edified 
many hearts. 

Next to German affairs we are mostly here concerned 
with those of Belgium and Holland, which are hourly 
becoming more tangled, yet which must be brought to a 
conclusion as quickly as possible. England is credited 
with the intention to put an end to these complications in 
one way or another; and it is said that this, and not Polish 
interests, is the real purport of Durham's journey to Peters- 
burg. In any case, the choice of messenger is considered 
as a sign of a decisive purpose; for Lord Durham is the 
most morose, the most prickly, and the most angular son of 
Albion. Moreover, he is personally hostile to the Russian 
camarilla, because the latter on the occasion of the Reform 
Bill intrigued against him, a jealous reformer, and against 
his father-in-law, Lord Grey, and must have sought by any 
available means to overthrow him. The friends of peace 
hope that he and the Emperor Nicholas will not speak 
much with one another, because the latter can in nowise 
be favourably disposed on account of the unbecoming and 
even contemptuous manner in which he has been spoken 
of in Parliament. Perhaps there may be other very 
obvious reasons why no important interview between them 
can take place, and everything may depend upon the 
intermediary. Louis Philippe is still of opinion that he is 
strong. " Look, how strong we are ! " is the refrain of all 
discourses in the Tuileries; just as a sick man perpetually 

216 HEINE. 

speaks of health and does not know how sufficiently to 
affirm that he digests well, that he can stand on his legs 
without cramp, that he breathes quite comfortably, etc., etc. 

These people constantly vaunt the strength and energy 
that they have already expended in various comminatory 
measures, and that they may still expend. Then come 
daily to the castle the diplomats who feel their pulse and 
make them put out their tongue, who carefully diagnose 
their symptoms, and then send bulletins of the political 
health to foreign courts. Among the plenipotentiaries the 
eternal question is asked : " Is Louis Philippe strong or 
weak?" In the first case, their masters may tranquilly 
conclude and carry out any wished-for measure at home; 
in the second case, where war might be a consequence of 
a change of French government, nothing very serious can 
be attempted. . . . 

That great question, whether Louis Philippe be weak or 
strong, may be difficult to decide. 

It is, however, easy to see that the French themselves 
are not weak. They have found new allies in the hearts of 
the people, whereas their adversaries at this moment do not 
stand on the pinnacle of popularity. They have invisible 
hordes of spirits as auxiliaries, and their corporeal army is 
therefore in a flourishing condition. French youth is as 
warlike and enthusiastic as in 1792. 

The young conscripts parade through Paris to the strains 
of joyous music, and wear on their hats fluttering ribbons 
and flowers and the number they have drawn, which in a 
manner is their great lottery. Hymns to Liberty are sung 
and the marches of '92 are rattled on the drums. 




HAVRE, August ist, 1832. 

THE question, whether Louis Philippe be strong or weak, 
appears to belong to the category of those problems whose 
solution is of equal interest to the people and to their 
rulers. It occupied my thoughts constantly during my 
excursion in the north of France. But, as concerns public 
opinion, I have heard so many contradictory assertions, 
that I am able to communicate nothing more definite on 
this subject than they can discover who go for inspiration 
to the Tuileries, or, more properly speaking, to St. Cloud. 
The northern French, and consequently the wily Normands, 
are not wont to express themselves as unreservedly as do 
the people of the langue d'oc. Or is it perhaps already 
a sign of discontent that many of the citizens of the langue 
d'ceil, preoccupied exclusively with the national interests, 
preserve this serious silence the moment they are inter- 
rogated thereon ? Youth, alone, enthusiastic in the promul- 
gation of ideas, expresses itself in unveiled language upon 
what to it is an inevitable event namely, the Republic; 
and the Carlists, who consider the interests of the indivi- 
dual to be of paramount importance, insinuate in every 
possible way their hatred of the powers that be, which they 
depict in the most exaggerated colours, and whose fall they 
predict as a matter of certainty. The Carlists are fairly 

218 HEINE. 

numerous in this region. This is explained by the exist- 
ence of a particular predilection, the attachment to certain 
members of the fallen dynasty, who formerly spent the 
summer in this neighbourhood, and knew how to make 
themselves beloved; the Duchesse de Berry, for example. 
Her adventures are the subject of daily conversation, and 
the priests of the Catholic Church invent in addition the 
most pious legends, redounding to the great glory of this 
political Madonna, and the blessed fruit of her body. In 
earlier days the priests were in nowise so satisfied with the 
ecclesiastical zeal of the duchess, and it was precisely 
because she excited their displeasure that she gained the 
favour of the people. " That pretty little woman is certainly 
not as bigoted as the others," it was said; "see with what 
worldly coquetry she saunters along in the procession, with 
what an air of indifference she carries her prayer-book, how 
she amuses herself by holding her taper aslant so that the 
wax drops on the satin train of her gloomily pious sister-in- 
law, d'Angouleme ! " These days have passed, and the 
merry roses have faded from poor Caroline's cheeks. She 
has become as pious as the others, and carries her taper as 
devoutly as the priests could wish; and, with this taper, she 
sets light to the civil war in beautiful France as the priests 

I cannot refrain from remarking that the influence of the 
Catholic ecclesiastics is greater in this province than is 
generally supposed in Paris. In funeral processions they 
are here to be seen robed once again in their church vest- 
ments, with cross and banners, as they chant a melancholy 
dirge through the streets; a spectacle well calculated to 
astonish one recently come from the capital, where all such 
display is strictly forbidden by the police, or, more correctly, 
by the people. During my stay in Paris I have never once 


seen a priest wearing official attire in the streets; I have never 
seen the Church represented, either by its ministers or by 
its symbols, in any of the thousand funeral processions 
which passed before me during the cholera time. Never- 
theless, many people aver that religion is silently reviving 
in Paris. This is true at any rate of the French Catholic 
Church of the Abbe" Chattel, which increases each day; 
the hall in the Rue Clichy has become too narrow for the 
crowd of the faithful, and for some time past the Abbe has 
held his services in the large building in the Boulevard 
Bonne Nouvelle, wherein M. Martin previously exhibited 
the animals of his menagerie, and where the following 
inscription in large letters is now set up: Eglise Catholique 
et Apostolique. 

Frenchmen of the North, who will hear nothing either 
of the Republic or of the miraculous child, whose sole 
desire is for the prosperity of France, are not exactly warm 
partisans of Louis Philippe, and do not sing praises of his 
frankness and integrity. On the contrary, they regret 
that he is not candid. They are, however, thoroughly 
persuaded that he is the right man ; that he must be 
upheld for the sake of public tranquillity; that the 
repression of all disturbances is salutary for commerce; 
that all further revolution and even war should be avoided 
in order that commerce should not come to a complete stop. 
They fear war only in the interests of commerce, which is 
already in a sorry condition. They do not fear war as war, 
for they are Frenchmen, and consequently are eager for 
glory as well as warlike by nature ; and besides this, they 
are of stronger and more solid build than the Frenchmen of 
the South, upon whom perhaps they impose their will by 
firmness and by an opinionative perseverance. Is this a 
result of the admixture of the Germanic race? They resemble 

220 HEINE. 

their great powerful horses, that are as competent to run 
swiftly as to carry heavy burdens and to endure all hard- 
ships of weather and of the road. These men fear neither 
Austrians nor Russians, neither Prussians nor Baskirs. 
They are neither partisans nor adversaries of Louis Philippe. 
The moment war is declared they will follow the tricolour 
flag, no matter who may be its bearer. 

I am convinced, that if war were declared, all the internal 
dissensions of the French would be promptly adjusted, 
either by conciliation or by force, that France would 
become a strong united power able to hold its own 
against the rest of the world. In that moment the 
strength or weakness of Louis Philippe would no longer 
be a subject of controversy. Then, he must be strong, or 
nothing. This question relates only to the preservation of 
peace; it is under this aspect only that is of importance to 
foreign powers. In many parts of this country I have 
received the following answer : " The party of the king is 
certainly imposing in point of numbers, but it is not strong." 
I think these words afford much matter for reflection. In 
the first place, they imply the unfortunate statement that the 
Government is itself in subjection to a party, and to all the 
interests of that party. The king is no longer the august 
power that calmly watches the strife of parties from the 
height of his throne, and knows how to maintain them in a 
salutary equilibrium ; no, he himself has descended into the 
arena. Odilon-Barrot, Mauguin, Carrel, Pages, Cavaignac 
find, perhaps, no other difference between him and them- 
selves than that of a fortuitous momentary power. This 
is the deplorable result of the king's decision to reserve 
to himself the Presidentship of the Council. Now Louis 
Philippe cannot change his chosen system of government 
without immediately falling into contradiction with his party 


and himself. Hence the press treats him as the supreme 
head of a party; it lays upon him all the blame provoked 
by faults of the Government; it assumes every ministerial 
word to be his own utterance ; in the Citizen-King it sees 
only a minister-king. When the statues of the gods descend 
from their exalted pedestals, the holy respect with which we 
regarded them perishes, and we judge them by their deeds 
and their words, as though they were our equals. 

With regard to the assertion that the king's party is 
numerous, but not strong, it certainly relates nothing new, 
since its truth has long been known. But what is remark- 
able is that the people have made this discovery on their 
own account ; that they do not count the heads, as is their 
usual custom, but the hands ; that they distinguish between 
those who applaud, and those who grasp the sword. The 
people have narrowly observed their world, and know very 
well that the king's party is composed of the three following 
classes : merchants and proprietors who fear for their shops 
and their possessions ; those who are weary of the struggle, 
and sigh for repose above all things ; and the timid who fear 
the Reign of Terror. This king's party, laden with property, 
apprehensive of the slightest interference with its daily 
comforts; this majority is face to face with a minority 
little encumbered with baggage, unquiet and restless to the 
last degree, that, in the impetuous, unbridled course of 
its ideas, sees but an ally in the Terror. 

In spite of the great number of heads, in spite of the 
triumph of June 6th, the people doubt the strength of 
the juste-milieu. It is always a sorry augury when the 
Government is not strong in the eyes of the people. 

These are thereby incited to try their strength against it ; 
a mysterious demoniacal impulse drives men to test their 
strength. This is the secret of Revolution. 

222 HEINE. 

DIEPPE, 2Olh August. 

IT "is not possible to give an idea of the impression pro- 
duced upon the lower classes of the French people by the 
death of young Napoleon. The sentimental bulletins which 
the Temps has published concerning the prolonged dying of 
the young prince during the last six weeks, which were 
reprinted and sold in the streets of Paris for a sou, had 
already begun to excite deep sadness in all the thoroughfares. 
I have seen even young Republicans weeping; but the old 
Republicans did not seem much affected, and it was with 
surprise that I overheard one of these say severely, " Don't 
cry; he was the son of the man who fired the mitrailleuse 
against the people on the i3th Vende'miaire." It is 
curious that when misfortune strikes a man we involuntarily 
recall some old grievance against him of which we have 
perhaps not thought time out of mind. In country- 
places the Emperor is venerated without reserve. There 
a portrait of the Man hangs in every cottage, and perhaps, 
as la Quotidienne remarks, on the same wall hangs a picture 
of the son of the house, as though he had not been sacri- 
ficed by this very man on one of his hundred battle-fields. 
Spite sometimes extorts from la Quotidienne the most naively 
conscientious remarks, which the more jesuitically fine 
Gazette defies in its turn. This is the chief political differ- 
ence which exists between these two papers. I traversed 
the greater portion of the neighbourhood of the northern 
coasts of France while the news of the death of the young 
Napoleon spread through it. Wherever I went I found uni- 
versal mourning among the people. The grief of these people 
was sincere; its source was not in the self-interests of the day, 
but in the cherished memories of a glorious past. Especially 
among the beautiful Normandaises was great lament made 
over the premature death of the son of the great hero. 


Yes, in every cottage hangs the portrait of the Emperor. 
Everywhere I found it crowned with a wreath of immortelles, 
as are our images of the Saviour during Holy Week. Many 
old soldiers wore crape. One old wooden-leg held a hand 
out to me and said, " A present, tout est fini ! " 

Undeniably, for those Buonapartists who believe in the 
resurrection in the flesh of the Emperor, all is at an end. 
For them Napoleon is nothing but a name, like Alexander 
of Macedon, or Charlemagne, whose issue likewise perished 
early. But for the Buonapartists, who believe in a resurrec- 
tion of the Napoleonic spirit, there is a future full of high 
hope. For these, Buonapartism is not the transmission of 
power through direct issue. No, their Buonapartism is now 
purified from all animal admixture, it is the idea of a 
monarchism of the highest power, employed for the profit 
of the people; and whosoever shall have that power and 
shall so use it, shall be called by them Napoleon I., as 
Caesar gave his name to authority only; so the name of 
Napoleon will henceforth designate a new Gesardom, of 
which the right of possession shall belong to him of greatest 
capacity and of best will. 

In certain respects Napoleon was a saint-Simonian 
Emperor. As he had himself arrived at supreme power 
by his intellectual superiority he furthered the interests of 
capacity only, and he had for aim the physical and moral 
welfare of the most numerous and the poorest class. He 
reigned less to the profit of the tiers tat, of the middle 
class, of the juste-milieu, than in the interest of the men 
whose riches are in their heart and in their hand. His 
army was a hierarchy, whose posts of honour were occupied 
by reason of personal merit and capacity. The meanest 
son of a peasant could, equally with the heir of the most 
ancient race, obtain the highest dignities and win gold and 

224 HEINE. 

stars of honour. This is why the Emperor's portrait is in the 
hut of every peasant, on the same wall on which would have 
hung the likeness of the son of the house, had he not fallen 
on the field of battle before he had been promoted to be 
general, or duke, or even king, as might many another poor 
lad, whose talent and courage might carry him to such high 
destiny, when the Emperor should reign again. In the 
image of this man there are many, perhaps, who worship 
the vanished hope of their own greatness. 

Most frequently I found in these peasant huts the picture 
of the Emperor visiting the sick at Jaffa, or that of him 
lying on his death-bed at St. Helena. These two repre- 
sentations bear a striking resemblance to the most holy 
pictures of the Christian religion. In the one Napoleon 
appears in the character of a saviour, who heals the sick; 
in the other he also dies a death of expiation. 

We, who are preoccupied by another symbol, we see no 
expiation in the sense indicated in the martyrdom of 
Napoleon on St. Helena. The Emperor there endures 
the penalty of the most fatal of his errors, of his guilt of 
infidelity towards the Revolution his mother. History 
had long since shown that a union between the son of the 
Revolution with the daughter of the Past could never 
prosper, and we now see that the only fruit of this fatal 
marriage had no life-principle in him, and that he died 

Concerning the heritage of the defunct, opinions are 
divided. The friends of Louis Philippe think that the 
orphaned Buonapartists will attach themselves to them. 
1 doubt, however, if these men of war and of glory will 
pass over so promptly to the pacific juste-milieu. The 
Carlists think that the Buonapartists will do homage to 
their King Henry V., the unique Pretender. I really do 


not know which most to admire in men, their folly or their 
presumption. The Republicans would seem more than all 
the others in a condition to draw the Buonapartists to 
them, but if it were easy once to make of uncombed 
sans culottes the most brilliantly appointed imperialists, 
it may prove difficult now to work a contrary metamor- 

It is greatly regretted that the beloved relics, the sword 
of the Emperor, the mantle of Marengo, the world-historic 
three-cornered hat, etc., which, in conformity with the 
testament from St. Helena, have been delivered over to 
young Reichstadt, do not come back to France. Each 
party in France might easily utilise a portion of this 
succession. Really, if I had the disposing thereof, I 
would apportion them thus : to the Republicans the 
sword of the Emperor, because they alone would still 
know how to put it to profitable use. I would allow my 
gentlemen of the juste-milieu to have the cloak of Marengo; 
for, indeed, they are sadly in need of such a cloak where- 
with to cover their inglorious nakedness. For the Carlists 
I would reserve the Emperor's hat, though it is not very 
suitable for such heads; but it may stand them in good 
stead when again blows rain down on their heads. Yes, 
I would even give them in addition the top-boots of the 
Emperor, which in any case they will be able to use the 
next time they again wish to run away. As to the staff 
with which the Emperor walked about at Jena, I doubt 
much if it is to be found in the Due de Reichstadt's 
legacy, and I believe the French have it still in their 

After the death of the young Napoleon, it was the 
journeyings of the Duchesse de Berry that chiefly I heard 
discussed in the provinces. The adventures of this lady 

226 HEINE. 

are told so poetically that one would think they had boen 
woven in hours of leisure by the grand nephews of the 
Fabliaux poets. The wedding of Compiegne has also 
furnished ample material for conversation ; I could impart 
a perfect ant-heap of bad jokes on this subject that I have 
heard debited to a Carlist castle. For example, one of the 
orators at these festivities seems to have observed that the 
Maid of Orleans was made prisoner at Compiegne, and 
that it was even in Compiegne that a new Duchesse of 
Orleans also was put in chains. Although all the French 
papers noise abroad the intimation that the influx of 
strangers is here very great, and especially that the life 
at the baths of Dieppe is very brilliant this year, I, here 
on the spot, have found it to be quite the contrary. There 
are not more than perhaps fifty bathers altogether ; every- 
thing is sad and dull, and the Baths which had attained 
to so high a degree of prosperity, thanks to the visits paid 
every summer by the Duchesse de Berry, seem irretrievably 
ruined. Many people have in consequence sunk into abject 
misery, and they look upon the fall of the Bourbons as the 
cause of their misfortunes. It is, therefore, easy to under- 
stand why there are many rabid Carlists here. At all 
events, it would be calumniating Dieppe to maintain that 
more than a quarter of its inhabitants are partisans of the 
previous dynasty. Nowhere do the National Guards 
evince greater patriotism than here; at the first beat of 
the drum they are to be seen massing together for drill; 
moreover, in their zeal, all wear the complete uniform. 
The fete of Napoleon has, during these last days, 
been celebrated with striking enthusiasm. As a rule, 
Louis Philippe is here neither loved nor detested. His 
maintenance on the throne is looked upon as necessary 
to the welfare of France. As to his government, it does 


not exactly excite enthusiasm. The French are in general 
so well informed by the free press concerning the true 
state of matters, they are so enlightened in politics, that 
they accept lesser evils patiently so as not to run the risk 
of greater. Concerning the personal character of the king, 
it is rarely attacked ; he is to be a man worthy of respect. 

ROUEN, ijth September. 

I WRITE these lines in the old country-seat of the Dukes 
of Normandy, in the ancient city where many old stone 
documents recall the history of this people so renowned of 
old for their adventurous and heroic intrepidity, and to-day 
for their spirit of litigation and their cleverness in gain. 
There, in that castle, sojourned Robert le Diable, whom 
Meyerbeer has set to music; on that market-place the 
Maid of Orleans was burnt, the great-hearted girl sung of 
by Schiller and Voltaire ; in this cathedral rests the heart 
of Richard the valiant king, named by men the Cceur-de- 
Lion ; from this soil sprang the Conqueror of Hastings, 
the sons of Tancred, and so many others of the flower of 
Norman chivalry. 

But all these are of no importance to us in the present 
day; here we occupy ourselves much more with the 
question : Has the pacific system of Louis Philippe taken 
root in the warlike soil of Normandy ? Has the new citizen- 
kingship made for itself a good or bad bed in the old 
heroic cradle of English and Italian aristocracy, in this 
land of Normandy ? I think I am to-day able to answer 
this question very briefly. The large proprietors, especially 
among the nobles, are Carlists ; the well-to-do tradesmen 
and farmers are Philippists; the bulk of the people hate 

228 HEINE. 

and despise the Bourbons, but love, at all events the lesser 
number, the gigantic remembrances of the Republic, and the 
greater number the brilliant heroism of the Empire. The 
Carlists, like every vanquished party, are more active than 
the Philippists, who feel themselves secure for the present ; 
it may be said in their praise that they make great sacri- 
fices, especially money sacrifices. The Carlists, who never 
question their future triumph, but are persuaded that the 
future will return all their present sacrifices to them a 
thousandfold, give to their last sou, if they think thereby 
to benefit their party. It is a characteristic of this class 
less to appreciate their own belongings than to lust after 
those of others (sui profusus> alieni appetens). Covetous- 
ness and prodigality are sisters. The plebeian, who is not 
wont to acquire his earthly goods by court services, the 
favour of mistresses, by soft words and light play, holds 
more tenaciously to what he has earned. 

Meanwhile, the good citizens of Normandy have perceived 
that the journals through which the Carlists seek to work 
upon public opinion were very dangerous to the security 
of the State and of their possessions; they realise that they 
must thwart these intrigues by the same means the press. 
To this end the Estafetle du Havre has been recently 
started, a moderate journal of the juste-milieu, which cost 
the honourable merchants of Havre a great deal of money, 
and upon which many Parisians are at work, notably M. de 
Salvandy, a small, pliable, colourless nature in a long stiff 
and dried-up body (he has been praised by Goethe). Thus 
far, this journal is the only counter-mine opposed to the 
Carlists in Normandy. These latter, on the contrary, are 
indefatigable; they start their journals everywhere, their 
fortresses of lies, against which the spirit of Liberty may 
little by little expend its strength until succour comes from 


out the West. These papers are conducted more or less 
after the manner of La Gazette de France and La Quoti- 
dienne; these two are, moreover, very actively distributed 
among the people. Both are written in a, singularly clever 
and attractive manner, but withal they are profoundly 
wicked, perfidious, full of useful advice, of malicious 
pleasantries; and their noble colporteurs, who often dis- 
tribute them gratis, and perhaps give money in addition 
to the readers, naturally find for their wares a greater 
sale than the moderate mouthpiece of the juste-milieu. I 
do not know how sufficiently to recommend these two 
papers, for, from a superior point of view, I do not 
consider them in any way dangerous to the cause of 
liberty. On the contrary, they are helpful, because they 
spur on and provoke the combatants to new efforts, when 
at times weary of the struggle. These two journals are 
true representativea of the kind of people who, when their 
cause fails, revenge themselves on individuals; it is an 
action old as the world. We put our feet on their 
head, they pierce our heel. It must, however, be said 
in praise of La Gazette Quotidienne that, if it be as much 
a serpent as La Gazette, it nevertheless hides its wicked- 
ness less; that its hereditary rancour betrays itself in 
every word; that it is a kind of rattlesnake and itself 
warns people of its approach. La Gazette, unfortunately, 
has no such rattle. At times it speaks against its own 
principles in order indirectly to procure a triumph ; La 
Quotidienne, in its ardour, would rather sacrifice the victory 
than thus deny itself in cold blood. La Gazette has the 
calmness of Jesuitism, and does not permit itself to be 
disturbed by the fervour of its opinions, which is so much 
the easier, inasmuch as Jesuitism, properly speaking, has 
no opinions, but is merely a profession. In La Quotidienne, 

230 HEINE. 

on the contrary, imperious lordlings and rabid monks rage 
and roar, ill-disguised in the garments of chivalrous 
loyalty and Christian love. This last characteristic belongs 
also to the Carlist journal which appears here, at Rouen, 
under the title of Gazette de la Normandie. In it there 
are lamentations over the disappearance of the good old 
times with its chivalric figures, its crusades, its pious nuns, 
its gentle ladies, its troubadours, and other sentimentalities, 
which remind one strangely of a celebrated German poet, 
in whose head blossomed more flowers than thoughts, but 
whose heart was full of love; whereas, on the contrary, as 
concerns the editor of the Gazette de la Normandie, his 
head is full of crass obscurantism, and his heart of gall 
and poison. This editor is a certain Vicomte Walsh, a long 
grey-haired figure of about sixty years of age. I have seen 
him in Dieppe, where he had been invited to a Carlist 
council, and where he was much feted by the noble clique. 
With characteristic loquacity, a little Carlist, nevertheless, 
whispered in my ear, "C'est un fameux compere; he does 
not belong properly to the French nobility; his father 
Irish by birth was in the service of France at the out- 
break of the Revolution, and when he emigrated and wished 
to avoid the confiscation of his goods he went through the 
form of selling them to his son. But when, later, the old 
man returned to France, and demanded back his goods 
from his son, the latter denied the simulated sale, pre- 
tended that it had taken place in good faith, and thus 
kept possession of his father's and poor sister's fortune. 
She became maid of honour to Madame la Duchesse de 
Berry, and the enthusiasm of her brother for Madame is 
founded in vanity as much as in egoism, for "... I knew 

It is difficult to form an idea with what perfidious cousc 


quences the present Government is undermined by the 
Carlists. With what result time will show. As no man is 
too base for them, if they can use him to their ends, neither 
are any means too bad. Besides these canonical journals, 
of which I have spoken above, the Carlists, alas ! work 
through the oral transmission of every possible calumny, 
through tradition. This black propaganda seeks to destroy 
utterly the good repute of the present governments, especi- 
ally that of the king. The lies, forged to this intent, are 
often as abominable as they are absurd. "Calumniate, 
calumniate, for every snail leaves its trail," is practically 
the motto of their charming masters. 

In a Carlist society at Dieppe a young priest said to me : 
" You ought in your correspondence with your compatriots 
to help the cause of truth a little, so that when war is 
declared, if by chance Louis Philippe should still be at 
the head of the Government, the Germans may hate him 
more vehemently, and may fight against him with greater 

And when I asked him if we could be certain of victory, 
he assured me with almost a smile of pity that "the 
Germans were the bravest people in the world, that they 
would be opposed with only a semblance of resistance; 
that the North as well as the South was devoted to the 
legitimate dynasty; that Henry V. and Madame were 
generally adored as though they were a little Saviour and 
the immaculate Mother, that it was the religion of the 
people, and that this legitimate fervour would sooner or 
later break out publicly in Normandy." . . . While the 
man of God spoke thus, a horrible disturbance arose 
suddenly in front of the house in which we chanced to be. 
The drums rattled, the trumpets sounded, the "Marseillaise" 
rang out so loudly that the window-panes vibrated, and 

232 HEINE. 

there followed the cry from full throats, "Vive Louis 
Philippe ! A bas les Carlists ! Les Carlists a la lanterne !" 
This took place at one o'clock in the morning, and the 
whole company was in great alarm. I was also afraid, for I 
remembered the old German proverb, " Taken together, 
hanged together." However, it was only a joke on the part 
of the National Guard at Dieppe. These good people had 
learned that Louis Philippe had just arrived at the Chateau 
d'Eu, and they had at once formed the resolution to march 
there to greet the king, but they wished in starling to give 
an alarm to the poor Carlists, and to this end they made 
that horrible row before their houses, and sang like madmen 
the "Marseillaise," that "Dies irae, dies ilia" of the new 
church which announces the last judgment to the Carlists. 

I can, as eye-witness, report that it was not a prompted 
enthusiasm with which the National Guards saluted the 
king. He passed them in review, was delighted at the 
unrestrained joy with which they greeted him, and I am 
bound to admit that in this time of dissension and defiance 
this picture of union was very edifying. They were free, 
armed citizens, who without timidity looked their king in 
eyes, showed him their respect, weapon in hand; and, 
sometimes, by a manly shake of the hand, assured him of 
their fidelity and their obedience. Louis Philippe very 
naturally I need hardly say shook hands with each. . . . 

The Carlists still mock greatly over these hand-shakes, 
and I must admit that hatred makes them at times witty 
when they quiz that unseemly familiarity. Thus, in the 
castle of which I have made previous mention, I saw a farce 
performed by a select few, which in the most burlesque 
fashion represented how Fip I., king of the grocers (epiriers\ 
gives his son, Grand Poulet, lessons in political economy, 
and paternally instructs him "that he must not allow 


himself to be enticed by theoricians to see the citizen- 
kingship in the sovereignty of the people, and still less in 
the maintenance of the Charta; that he must give ear to 
the babbling neither of the right side nor of the left ; it is 
of no consequence whether France be made free at home 
or respected abroad, still less that the throne should be 
barricaded with republican institutions or sustained by 
hereditary peers; that neither pledged words nor heroic 
deeds are of any importance, that citizen-kingship and the 
art of government consists in shaking hands with every 

Next he shows the different kinds of hand-shakes, in 
every position, on foot, on horse, when galloping through 
the ranks, during a march past, etc., etc. Grand Poulet is 
an apt pupil, and accurately repeats this governmental 
legerdemain. He even asserts that he wishes to perfect 
this invention of the citizen-kingship, and each time he 
shakes hands with a citizen he will also ask him, " How are 
you, man Vieux cochon 1 " or, what is synonymous, " How 
are you, citoyen ? " " Yes, it is synonymous," answers the 
king dryly, and the Carlists laugh. Grand Poulet wishes next 
to practise shaking hands, first with a griseite, and then 
with the Baron Louis, but he does it so abruptly that he 
breaks the people's fingers. The whole farce was seasoned 
with mockeries and calumnies of those celebrated men 
whom, before the July Revolution, we honoured as lights 
of liberalism, and whom, since then, we have degraded as 
servile. Although I had heretofore not been much in 
favour of the jusfe-milieu, yet I felt myself moved with a 
certain feeling of piety for these objects of my earlier 
reverence; my liking for them re-awoke when I saw them 
insulted by these bad men. Yes, like him who under the 
waters of a dark well can discern the stars in the heavens in 

234 HEINE. 

full daylight, I, having fallen into the company of Carlist 
obscurantism, could see again, pure and clear, the merit of 
the men of the juste-milieu ; I felt again my early respect 
for the former Due d'Orleans, for the doctrinaires, for a 
Guizot, a Thiers, a Dupin, a Royer-Collard, and for other 
stars whose brilliancy is lost in the glaring daylight of the 
July sun. It is useful, from time to time, thus to consider 
the matter from a deep instead of a high standpoint. Thus 
we learn to judge men more impartially, even when we hate 
the cause whose representatives they are. We learn to 
distinguish the men of the juste-milieu from their system. 
This system is bad, in our opinion, though individuals may 
merit our esteem : especially the man whose position is 
the most difficult in Europe. Only in the resolution of the 
1 3th of March does he see a possibility of his existence. 

This sentiment of preservation is the same in all humanity. 
If we happen to be in the midst of Carlists, and we hear 
them accuse this man, he rises in our esteem when we find 
that what they blame in Louis Philippe is exactly what we 
see in him with greatest pleasure, that those qualities of his 
which displease us are those most to their taste. If, in the 
eyes of the Carlists, he has the merit of being a Bourbon, 
this merit appears to us, on the contrary, a levis nota. But 
it would be unjust not to make an honourable distinction 
between him with his family and the elder branch of the 
Bourbons. The house of Orleans has attached itself so 
completely to the French people that it has been re- 
generated with them; it, like the people, has emerged 
from this terrible bath of the Revolution purified, ameli- 
orated, more wholesome, and more citizenly. Whereas 
the Bourbons, who have not taken part in this rejuvenation, 
belong yet wholly to that decrepit old generation which 
Crebillon, Laclos, and Louvel have so well depicted in the 


full glory of its sins, in the flower of its corruption. France, 
become young once more, could not again belong to this 
dynasty, to these ghosts of the past; this false semblance 
of life became daily more insupportable. Their conversion 
after death was a repulsive spectacle; the perfumed cor- 
ruption was an offence to every honest nose, and one fine 
morning in June, when the Gallic cock crew, these ghosts 
had to vanish away. Louis Philippe and his family, on the 
contrary, are healthy and full of life. They are the flourish- 
ing sons of young France, chaste in spirit, fresh with youth, 
and of good citizenly habits. It is precisely this citizen 
quality in Louis Philippe, so displeasing to the Carlists, 
which raises him in our esteem. I cannot, in spite of the 
best will in the world, sufficiently divest myself of party 
spirit to judge correctly at which point he takes the citizen- 
kingship seriously. The grand jury of history will decide 
whether he meant it seriously. In this case the hand- 
shaking would in nowise be ridiculous; and the manly 
hand-shake will, perchance, become the symbol of the new 
citizen-kingship, as the servile genuflection was formerly 
the symbol of feudal sovereignty. Louis Philippe, if he 
preserve and transmit to his children his throne and his 
honourable sentiments, may leave behind him a great name 
in history, not only as the chief of a new dynasty, but also 
as the founder of a new sovereignty, which may change the 
face of the world. As the first citizen-king . . . Louis 
Philippe, if he preserve his throne and his honourable 
sentiments, but that is precisely the great question. 



BAREGES, /w/v 2dth, 1846. 

IN the memory of man there has never been such an influx 
of visitors to the health-giving springs of Bareges as this 

The little village of about sixty houses and of a few dozen 
temporary shelters cannot accommodate the crowd of in- 
valids. Late-comers could scarcely find even a miserable 
shelter for one night, and were obliged to turn away with 
all their aches and pains. The greater number of the 
visitors are French military men, who have earned laurels, 
lancer-thrusts, and rheumatism in Africa. A few old 
officers of the Empire drag themselves about here, and seek 
in the baths forgetfulness of the glorious mementoes that 
cause them so much suffering with every change of weather. 
There is also a German poet here who may have divers 
things to have bathed out of him, yet who, until the present 
moment, has in nowise taken leave of his senses; who, still 
less, is shut up in a lunatic asylum, as a Berlinese corre- 
spondent has stated in that very praiseworthy Leipziger Allge- 
meinen Zeitung. We may, of course, be mistaken. Heinrich 
Heine may be madder than he himself knows. But what we 
can with assurance affirm is that here, in anarchic France, he 
is still at liberty to come and go as he pleases, which in all 


probability would not be permitted to him in Berlin, where 
the mental sanitary police would have acted in a more sum- 
mary manner. Be that as it may, pious souls on the banks 
of the Spree may console themselves, inasmuch as the body 
of the poet, if not his soul, has been sufficiently chastised 
with paralysing infirmities; and during his journey here from 
Paris his suffering became so intolerable that at no great 
distance from Bagneres de Bigorre he was forced to get out 
of the carriage and be carried across the mountain in an 
arm-chair. During that magnificent ascent, however, he 
enjoyed many fine gleams of light. Never had the sunshine 
and the fresh greenness of the forest enchanted him more 
poignantly, and the great rocky peaks, like the heads of 
stone giants, looked at him with immeasurable compassion. 
The Hautes Pyrenees are wonderfully beautiful. Especially 
regenerative to the soul is the music of the mountain 
torrents, which, like a full-sounding orchestra, precipitate 
themselves into the so-called Gave, the noiseful river of the 
valley. Then there is the idyllic tinkle of the sheep bells 
from time to time, when the flocks in great numbers, headed 
by the ewes with their long wool and the rams with their 
Doric horns, carrying large bells round their necks, joyously 
file down the long slopes of the hills. 

After them saunters the young herd who leads them down 
to the valley to be shorn, and who will thus have an 
opportunity of seeing his sweetheart again. A few days 
later the sound of the bells is less cheery. The weather in 
the interval has grown stormy ; ash-grey cloud-mists trail 
along the flanks of the valley, and the young shepherd with 
his shorn, shiveringly naked lambs takes his melancholy 
way up to his Alpine solitude. He is wrapped round in his 
brown, well-patched Basque cloak, and perhaps the parting 
from her was bitter. 

238 HEINE. 

One of these glimpses reminded me vividly of Decamp's 
masterpiece which hung in this year's Salon, and was criti- 
cised with unjust severity by many, even by Thdophile 
Gautier, who is so learned in matters of art. The shepherd 
in this painting, a veritable beggar-king in his tattered 
majesty, tries to shelter a poor little sheep under the folds 
of his cloak from the torrents of rain ; the bulging, stormy 
clouds with their damp grimaces, the shaggy hideous dog, 
everything in this picture is so true to nature, so faithfully 
Pyre'ne'an, so free from any sentimental taint, or any 
enfeebling idealisation, that here the talent of Decamp 
manifests itself in its most naive nudity to an almost alarming 

The Pyre'ne'es are nowadays exploited with great success 
by numbers of French artists, particularly on account of the 
peasant costumes to be met with. The rendering of 
Leleux deserve the praises which our colleague on the 
Augsburg Gazette, with his fine penetration, awards to 
them. In this painter's work also truth to nature is to be 
found, but with lack of discernment ; it is emphasised too 
crudely and degenerates into virtuosity. The costumes of 
mountaineers, of the Bdarnais, the Basques, the frontier 
Spaniards, are, indeed, as original and as worthy for the 
easel as can be desired by any young enthusiast of the 
confraternity of the brush to whom our stupid frock-coat is 
an abomination. 

The head covering of the women, the scarlet red hood 
which falls to their hips above their black bodice, is 
especially picturesque. 

There is no more charming picture than that formed 
by a goat-herd thus clad, seated on a high-saddled mule 
with the old-time distaff under her arm, advancing with her 
black-horned flock over the summit of the mountain, where 


the adventurous procession outlines itself in purest contours 
against the clear blue background of the heavens. 

The building, wherein are situated the baths of Bareges, 
presents the most disagreeable contrast to the environing 
beauties of nature ; its unattractive exterior is in thorough 
keeping with the interior; sombre, sinister cells, like 
sepulchral vaults, with stone baths that are far too small, a 
kind of provisionary coffin, wherein each day for an hour one 
can practise, lying silently with legs extended and arms 
crossed. But the most distressing inconvenience at Bareges 
is the scarcity of water ; the healing springs do not well in 
sufficient quantities. To remedy matters there are lament- 
able make-shifts, called piscines, that is to say, narrow 
reservoirs of water wherein a dozen and sometimes more 
men bathe together in upright position. Thus there 
are occasional contacts which are far from agreeable. 
It is on such occasions that one understands the deep 
meaning of the saying of the tolerant Hungarian to his com- 
panion, "To me," he said, while stroking his moustache, 
" to me, it matters little what a man is, whether he be 
a Christian or Jew, Republican or Monarchist, Turk or 
Prussian, providing he be in sound health." 


BAREGES, August "jth, 1846. 

I WILL not venture to speak authoritatively on the thera- 
peutic value of the baths at Bareges. Perhaps nothing 
definite can be said on the subject. It is possible 
chemically to analyse the waters of a spring, and to tabulate 
exactly how much sulphur, salt, or butter it contains; but 
no one would hazard a declaration that the action of this 

2-jo HEINE. 

water, even in specified cases, is guaranteed to effect an 
infallible cure. 

The result depends solely on the peculiar constitution 
of the patient. Even when two patients, say, are suffering 
from the same illness, with identical symptoms, the bath 
treatment will benefit one and have no effect soever upon 
another, unless to his hurt. Just as it is with magnetism, 
so is it with mineral waters. These possess virtues which 
may be sufficiently recognised, but are yet not accurately 
determined; whose full capacities, and, in truth, whose 
essential qualities, even, still remain obscure. So much is 
this so, that physicians themselves are in the habit of re- 
sorting to them as a treatment only when all other means fail. 
When the son of ./Esculapius knows of nothing further to 
recommend to his patient, he sends him to the baths with a 
long written " consultation," which is nothing more than a 
letter of recommendation addressed to Chance. 

The necessaries of life here are very bad, and propor- 
tionately dear. Midday dinner is brought in high baskets 
to the guests in their rooms by unattractive looking waiting- 
maids exactly as at Gottingen. If only we still had here 
the youthful academical appetite with which we once mas- 
ticated Georgia-Augusta's most learnedly dry roast veal ! 
The life, in a word, is as dull as on the flowering banks of 
the Leine. 1 

Nevertheless, I must not omit to mention that we have 
enjoyed two very pretty balls, at which the dancers 
appeared without crutches. One or two daughters of 
Albion were not lacking, who distinguished themselves by 
their beauty and their awkward manners; they danced as 

1 A river which runs through Gottingen. The university of that 
town is called Georgia-Augusta, after the name of the founder, George 
II., King of England. 


though they were riding on asses. Among the French- 
women shone the daughter of the celebrated Cellarius, 
who what an honour for little Bareges danced the polka 
here on his own feet ! Also some young nymphs from 
the Grand Opera at Paris of those who are called rats 
among others the silver-footed Mademoiselle Lelhomme, 
whirled their entrechats here, and at the sight I thought again 
with affection of my dear Paris, where I had been able to hold 
out no longer at last on account of the dancing and the 
music, and where, nevertheless, my heart would fain be 
to-day. Marvellous and foolish enchantment ! Through 
dint of pleasures and wild amusements Paris at last becomes 
so fatiguing, so overpowering, all pleasures there are pro- 
ductive of so exhausting a tension, that one can hardly 
contain oneself for joy at escaping at last from this tread- 
mill of pleasure. Yet scarcely have we been away from it 
a few months than a certain waltz melody, or the mere 
shadow of a lancer's leg, suffices to awake in our breast a 
languorous home-sickness for Paris ! But this can only 
happen to the befogged heads at these sweet bagnos, and not 
to the young fellows fresh from our German Student Lands- 
mannschaft, 1 who, after a short term spent in Paris, complain 
piteously that there they are not so serenely quiet as when 
on the other side of the Rhine, where the cell system 
of solitary meditation has been introduced; that they cannot 
meet together as peaceably as, for instance, at Magdeburg 
or at Spandau; that the moral conscience is drowned in the 
noise of the waves of pleasure which sweep over it; that the 
tide of dissipation there is too great. Yes, indeed, dis 
sipation is certainly too great in Paris, for while we give 
ourselves up to it, our money dissipates itself at the same 

1 Association. 

1 6. 

242 HEINE. 

Ah ! that money ! it knows even here at Bareges how to 
dissipate itself in spite of the dreariness of this health nest. 
The expense of a sojourn here is beyond all comprehen- 
sion, more than double that ot any other baths in the 
Pyre'ne'es. And what avarice among these dwellers in the 
mountains, whom usually we vaunt as children of nature, 
remnants of a guileless race ! They revere money with a 
fervour that borders on fanaticism ; it is their peculiar 
national religion. But is not money the God of the 
whole world to-day an Almighty God, whom even the 
most obdurate atheist could not deny for three days 
consecutively? for without its divine aid the baker would 
not deliver over the smallest roll of bread. 

During these last days of intense heat whole swarms of 
English have arrived at Bareges ; healthy red faces fed 
upon beef-steaks, an almost insulting contrast to the pale- 
faced tribe of bathers. The most important of these new 
arrivals is a member of Parliament, enormously rich, toler- 
ably well known, and a Tory to boot. This gentleman 
seems not to care for the French, but, on the contrary, to 
have the greatest sympathy with us Germans. He praises 
in particular our integrity and fidelity. Moreover, in Paris, 
where he thinks of passing the winter, he intends to have 
no French servants, but will employ only Germans. I 
thanked him for the confidence he reposed in us, and recom- 
mended certain compatriots of the historical school to him. 

We count also among the present Bath guests the Due 
de Nemours, who with his family lives at Luz, a few miles 
distant from Bareges; though he drives here daily in order to 
take his bath. When he came with this intent for the first 
time to Bareges he drove in an open vehicle, in spite of the 
miserable mist-clouds which obscured the day ; from which 
I concluded that he must be in perfectly good health, or at 


all events, that he was not afraid of catching cold. His 
first visit was devoted to the military hospital, where he 
conversed familiarly with the sick soldiers; he inquired 
concerning their wounds, their term of service, etc. A 
demonstration of this kind, though it be but the well- 
worn flourish of trumpets by means of which so many 
illustrious personages have made known their exceeding 
worth, never fails of its aim; and when the prince arrived 
at the bathing establishment, where the curious public 
awaited him, he was already moderately popular. 1 

The Due de Nemours is not so beloved as his dead 
brother, whose qualities showed themselves more openly. 
This admirable man, or, to express it better, this admirable 
human poem that was entitled Ferdinand d'Orleans, was 
written to some extent in a popular and generally intel- 
ligible style, whereas his brother Nemours screens himself 
in a form of art less accessible to the apprehension of the 

These two princes have always outwardly presented a 

1 The following paragraph is in the original letter to the Augsburger 
Allgemeinen Zeitung: " As this regent-designate has a great future be- 
fore him, and as his personality may have an influence upon the destinies 
of the whole of Europe, I scrutinised him with especial attention, 
and sought to discern from his outward appearance the sign of his 
inner nature. I was speedily disarmed during this rather trust-lacking 
occupation by the tranquil grace which to some degree distinguished 
this slender, elegantly dressed young man, and then by the fine com- 
passionate look with which his eyes rested on the suffering faces 
grouped around him. This look had in it nothing official, nothing 
studied ; it was the pure and sincere outcome of a noble humane soul. 
The compassion which his eyes betrayed had something touching in 
its reserved modesty, for modesty is apparently the most beautiful trait 
in his character. We have observed this same modesty in his brother, 
the Due d'Orleans, who fell prematurely on the battle-field of life. 
The Due de Nemours is not so beloved," etc. 

244 HEINE. 

remarkable contrast. The Due d'Orleans was at once 
nonchalant and knightly ; the other is rather something 
of the fine patrician. The first was frankly the young 
French officer, bubbling over with the most light-hearted 
bravery, one of those who throw themselves with equal zest 
into the storming of a fortress or of a woman's heart. 
Nemours is said to be a good soldier, in point of cool- 
headed courage, rather than of warlike zeal. 1 

If he succeed to the Regency he will not allow himself to 
be so easily allured by Bellona's trumpet-call as his brother 

1 Instead of the above sentences, the following is to be found in the 
Augsburger Allgemeinen Zeitung: "Nemours looks much more like a 
statesman, but one who has a conscience, and unites prudence to 
the noblest intentions. Did I wish to elucidate myself by means of an 
example, I should best select it from the domain of poetry, and it seems 
to me as though Goethe had partially depicted these two princes under 
the names of Egmont and Oranien. Persons situated near him tell me 
that the Due de Nemours possesses wide knowledge of and clear insight 
into home and foreign affairs ; he sets himself zealously to understand 
all essentials; he is himself, however, very uncommunicative, whether 
by reason of shyness or taciturnity is not known. He is praised for his 
trustworthiness, as a foremost characteristic; he rarely makes a promise, 
and only with reluctance, but his word is as steadfast as a rock. He is 
a good soldier, of a cold-blooded courage, but not very warlike. He is 
passionately attached to his family, and his clever father knew well to 
whose hands he committed the welfare of the house of Orleans. What 
especial securities did this man offer in the interests of France, and 
especially of humanity ? I believe the best. In any case, we must 
pronounce it as far better than that offered to us by his brother of 
blessed memory. He is less popular than was the other; for the same 
reason he risks less if once the acquired property of the Revolution 
comes into conflict with the needs of the Government; 

"Beloved Regents who enjoy blind confidence are at times very 
dangerous to Freedom. Nemours knows that he is narrowly watched ; 
and he will cei'ainly beware of any act of treachery. Moreover, he 
will not allow himself to be so easily allured by Bellona's trumpet- 
call," etc. 


would have been; which is highly satisfactory for us, for we 
can easily presage what dear country would have become 
the battle-field, and what innocent people would have had at 
the last to defray the expenses of the war. One thing only 
I should like to know: I mean, whether the Due de Nemours 
is possessed of as much patience as his glorious father, who, 
by means of this quality lacked by all his French adver- 
saries was indefatigably victorious, and preserved peace for 
beautiful France and for the whole world. 


BAREGES, August 20tk, 1846. 

YES, the Due de Nemours is patient. That he possesses 
this cardinal virtue I am certain from the equanimity with 
which he endures delays when his bath is being prepared. 
He in nowise recalls his great uncle, with his famous " J'ai 
failli attendre ! " The Due de Nemours understands how 
to wait, and I have observed a no less excellent quality in 
him, that he does not keep others waiting. I am his 
successor (at the baths, of course), and I must give him due 
praise that he takes his leave as punctually as any ordinary 
mortal, to whom the hour is measured out to the minute. He 
comes here daily, usually in an open carriage, and drives 
himself, while beside him sits a coachman with lazy, sulky 
face, and behind him a corpulent German footman. 

Often, when the weather is fine, the Prince runs 
beside the carriage the whole way from Luz to Bareges; 
for he has a great partiality for physical exercise. He 
impresses the mountaineers by his hardihood in climbing 
the steepest acclivities. At La Breche de Roland, in the 
Gavarnie valley, neck-breaking rocky peaks are pointed 
out as having been scaled by the prince. He is an ex- 

246 HEINE. 

cellent hunter, and appears recently to have put a bear into 
great danger. With his wife, who is one of the most beauti- 
ful of women, he also makes frequent excursions to the 
most interesting points in the mountains. Thus recently he 
made with her the ascent of the Pic du Midi, and while 
the princess and her ladies-in-waiting were carried up the 
mountain in palanquins, the young Prince strode on ahead 
in order to be alone for a moment on the summit, there, 
unmolested, to enjoy those colossal beauties of nature which 
raise our soul to such ideal heights above the every-day 
world. Every time the Prince reaches the summit of the 
mountains he has found there, planted stock-like, three 
gendarmes ! Now there is truly nothing in the world so 
dispiriting and sobering to the imagination as the positive 
table-of-the-face of a gendarme, and the horrible citron 
yellow of his belt. All enthusiastic feelings are instantly 
arrested in the breast au nom de la lot, and I can easily 
understand the expression of a little Frenchwoman who, 
last winter, was scandalised to see these gendarmes every- 
where, even in the churches, in the pious houses of God, 
wherein one wishes to give oneself up to feelings of 
devotion. "The sight," she said, "destroys all my illu- 
sions." . . 

I could not refrain from smiling mournfully when it 
was related to me how disagreeably affected the Prince was 
with the surprise which the servile officiousness of the 
Prefect had prepared for him on the top of the Pic du 
Midi. Poor Prince, I thought, you deceive yourself greatly 
if you suppose that alone and unmolested you can still 
give vent to your enthusiasm. You are in the hands of 
the gendarmerie ; and you will yourself, one day, need to 
be the gendarme-in-chief, entrusted with the peace of the 
country. Poor Prince ! 


Here, at Bareges, it grows daily duller. It is not the 
lack of social distractions which is insupportable, but 
rather that one is deprived of the advantages of solitude. 
Endless cries and noises permit of no peaceful dreaming, 
but at every moment awake one with a start from one's 
thoughts. The shrill cracking of whips that national 
music of Bareges grates upon the nerves from early 
morning till late at night. Then, when bad weather sets in, 
and the mountains, drunk with sleep, draw their mist-caps 
over their ears, the hours lengthen to a wearisome eternity. 
Then the goddess of Ennui in person, her head enveloped 
in a cowl of lead and carrying Klopstock's Messiah in her 
hand, walks about the streets of Bareges, and whomsoever 
she yawns at feels the last drop of his life's courage ebb 
from his heart ! Despondency has reached such a pitch that 
from sheer despair I no longer try to avoid the society of our 
patron, the English member of Parliament, who continues 
to pay the well-merited recognition of our domestic virtues 
and our moral qualities. Nevertheless, it seems to me that 
he likes us less enthusiastically since I let fall the remark 
that the Germans now feel a great desire to possess a navy; 
that we have already invented the names of all the ships of 
our future fleet; that the patriots wish, instead of wool as 
hitherto, to spin only linen for sail-cloth; that the oaks of 
the Teutoburgundian forests, which have slept since the 
defeat of Varus, have awaked at last, and now voluntarily 
offer themselves as masts for the ships. This communica- 
tion much displeased the noble Briton, and he opined that 
we would do better, we Germans, did we with undivided 
forces continue the erection of Cologne Cathedral, that 
great work of faith of our fathers. 

PLvery time that I converse with English people concern- 
ing my country, I observe, with profound humiliation, that 

248 HEINE. 

the haired they feel against the French is infinitely more 
honourable to this people than the impertinent liking which 
they deign to accord to us Germans, and for which we have 
to thank some lacuna in our power in the world, or in our 
intelligence. They like us for our maritime weakness, on 
account of which they have nothing to fear from com- 
mercial competition on our part; they like us for our 
political naivete, which they hope to exploit in some selfish 
way in the event of a war with France. 

One diversion in our dulness has been afforded by 
gossiping stories, chronicles of the elections, which even 
in these mountains have found a scandalous echo. The 
Opposition has once again suffered a defeat in the Depart- 
ment of the Hautes Pyrenees, which could easily have been 
foreseen from the indifference to politics and the greed for 
money which prevail here. 

The candidate of the party of progress, who was thrown 
out at Tarbes, must be an upright, loyal man, as he is praised 
on account of his convictions and the fixity of his persever- 
ance; although with him, as with so many other so-called 
heroic characters, conviction, properly speaking, is only ar- 
rested thought, and perseverance only a physical weakness. 
Such people are faithful to the principles for which they have 
already made so many sacrifices, actuated by the same 
reasons that prevent so many .men from separating from 
a mistress; they keep her because she has already cost 
so much. 

The papers have announced to society that M. Achille 
Fould has been elected at Tarbes, and that he will repre- 
sent the Hautes Pyrenees in the next Chamber of Deputies. 
Heaven preserve me from divulging here any particulars of 
the elections of the persons therein concerned. The man 
is neither better nor worse than a hundred others, who with 


him will constitute a majority on the green seats of the 
Bourbon Palace. The elected member is, moreover, Con- 
servative, not Ministerial, and hitherto he has supported not 
M. Guizot, but M. Mole. His promotion as a deputy is a 
genuine pleasure to me, for the very simple reason that 
the civil equality of the Israelite is sanctioned in his last 

It is true that, for a long time past, law as well as public 
opinion in France has recognised the principle that all the 
State employments, without exception, shall be open to any 
Jew who shall distinguish himself by his talents or high 
sentiments. But tolerant as this may sound, I detect in it, 
nevertheless, the acrid after-taste of the superannuated preju- 
dice. Yes, as long as Jews, even without talent and devoid 
of high sentiments, are not admitted to all employments 
equally with the thousands of Christians who neither think 
nor feel, nor know how to count, so long will the prejudice 
be not wholly eradicated, and the old oppression will still 
be in force. But the intolerance of the Middle Ages will 
dwindle to the merest shadow the moment the Jews, also 
without special qualifying merit, and merely with their 
money, may, equally with their Christian brethren, attain 
to the deputyship, the most desiderated post in France. 
From this point of view the election of M. Achille 
Fould is a definite victory for the principles of civil 

Two other confessors of the Mosaic faith, with an 
equally good monetary reputation, have also this year been 
elected as deputies. In how far do these two elections 
further the demociatic principle of civil equality? 

Both these deputies are millionaire bankers, and in my 
historical researches upon the national wealth of the Jews, 
from Abraham until the present day, I shall, doubtless, 

250 HEINE. 

again have occasion to speak of M. Renoit Fould and of 
M. d'Eichtal. 

Honi soil qui mal y pense! I wish to remark in advance, 
so as to avoid all misunderstanding, that the result of my 
researches into the national wealth of the Jews is a glorious 
one, and redounds to their greatest honour. Israel, in fact, 
owes its opulence solely to that sublime faith in God which 
it has for thousands of years preserved intact. The Jews 
have ever revered a supreme Being, who reigns invisibly in 
the heavens; while the heathens, incapable of rising to the 
conception of pure Spirit, made themselves all sorts of gods 
of gold and silver, which they worshipped on the earth. 
If these blind pagans had converted into money all the gold 
and silver that they squandered in the service of their false 
gods, and had put it out to interest, they would have become 
as rich as the Jews, who knew how to invest their gold and 
their silver to the greatest advantage, perhaps in Assyrio- 
Babylonish State loans, in Nebuchadnezzarian obligations, 
in Egyptian canals, in 5 per cent. Sidonians, and other 
classical shares which the Lord had blessed, as he seems 
also to bless the corresponding modern undertakings of the 
pious Israelite. 




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